


Royal Secret

by WhiteSheep



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Belly Bulging, Blow Jobs, Boypussy, Cervix Penetration, Clone Sex, Cold Bottom, Devoted Top, Double Penetration, Double Penetration in Two Holes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Gentle Sex, Loss of Virginity, Love at First Fucking?, Loyal Top, M/M, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Rimming, Rough Sex, Royalty Bottom, Royalty/Bodyguard, Service Kink, Service Top, Size Kink, Soft Porn, Somnophilia, Threesome - M/M/M, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, excessive cumming, i dont know how to tag this, or something like that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2020-06-25 00:08:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19734415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteSheep/pseuds/WhiteSheep
Summary: At the fifth week mark of working in the castle, Jurren is presented with this rumor:Emmanuel, the youngest prince, is a pussy boy.





	1. Somnophilia, Loss of Virginity, Cervix Penetration, Vaginal

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is porn, through and through, so nothing here should be taken as anything but a fictional fantasy to entertain. It´s, however, what I think people call "soft porn"? Idk, there are feelings here besides lust and some form of a plot, to which I mean there are moments when they are not having sex. If you are here just to read the sex scene with the tag that caught your attention, I´ll be writing the kink in the chapter title and you can just skip the story.

Jurren was a royal guard for a few weeks before he first heard the rumors.

People would think the man and woman responsible for protecting the Queen´s family would have better things to do than gossip like old folk at the river bank. But the truth is that, while very romantic and glorious in name, being a royal guard also means a lot of time doing absolutely nothing. They are to guard the entrances and follow the royal family and make sure everyone who comes in and out of the castle has the right and, more importantly, the approval of the Queen for doing so. But that´s it. They just kind of… stand. And walk.

Not that Jurren is complaining, since an easy job for him means there´s peace in the kingdom.

So, he quickly finds out after being nominated that, if you want the juiciest gossip, there´s no place better than the ward of the guards. Not even the servants, even if they are in a better position to know more – since the very nature of their job means being close to the royal family, they are picked personally by the Royal Consort to make sure they are completely discreet and loyal.

Jurren is not one for gossip normally. However, boredom can change a man. And it´s not like he claps his ears to avoid listening when he´s with the other guards, so he ends up learning about the week´s scandal no matter what.

At the fifth week mark of working in the castle, Jurren is presented with this rumor:

_Emmanuel, the youngest prince, is a pussy boy._

The man who tells him that has a sly smile on his face, and whispers with the secrecy of someone confident of their gossip. The shock that runs down his spine mingles with something… flustered, a tightening at the base of his stomach. _A pussy boy…?_ It is a very derogatory term he heard many times to describe the rare phenomenon of men being born with a vagina instead of a dick. Honest-to-God _men_ , with the appearance and voice of a man, no titties or anything, but with a uterus even if they don´t have the ability to birth like a woman. No one knows exactly _why_ they exist, if they are perhaps some sort of underdeveloped woman or maybe a remnant of nature´s failed attempt to adapt to Eve´s Punishment centuries ago when women started to decline in number.

But nowadays they are as rare as night rainbows and usually seen as a symbol of weak blood. Shameful and worthless since they cannot sire heirs doesn´t matter if they marry man or woman.

Jurren had never heard of one alive.

Until now, apparently.

“If anyone hears you saying shit like that, they will cut your throat,” he says after a beat, preferring to ignore his first reaction.

The guard – Thom – laughs with a shrug. “It´s the truth.”

“Even if it is, and I´m not saying I believe, even more of a reason to kill you for spreading this. The Queen would want to hide a shame like that. Open-mouthed idiots like you would be beheaded.”

The idiot gives him an annoyed glare but ends the subject after that, changing to news of bandits rummaging through the outer villages. Jurren tries to forget about the rumor after they part ways but it´s hard, the boredom of having nothing to do but stand guarding the doors allowing his mind the freedom to steam around the subject, flying back again and again to the image of Prince Emmanuel no matter how many times he tries to steer his thoughts to other things.

It´s just… well, while the entire royal family is known for their beauty, the youngest son of the Queen is… different. Sure, he has the Ghesho trademark golden hair that twists in soft-looking curls, with skin unmarred with scars or marks of disease like any silk stocking folk, dusted with freckles, like a dark constellation over a white sky, and clear eyes. The startling light blue characteristic of the royal descendants. But so does his sisters and brothers, his mother – in a family like that, having good looks just isn´t enough, after all. The only way to stand up is by your personality.

And prince Emmanuel is just too… reclusive. Quiet. Jurren could almost say _shy_ if it wasn´t for the cold way he´d look at anyone who dared to approach him. When put side by side with his siblings, charming and loud as they were, he seems… lacking. Which is people´s favorite reason to explain why he´s still unmarried _and_ unengaged, at the age of twenty. But Jurren always thought they were flimsy excuses at best, after all the Queen attracts lovers like moths to a flame even famous for her iron heart.

 _Maybe… **that** is the reason why?_ If the rumors _are_ true then it´d make sense why the Queen never allowed her youngest son to be engaged. If something like this about the royal family got out, it would be a huge scandal – the symbol of weak blood: a child incapable of conceiving no matter if he laid with a man or a woman, virtually useless…

 _Well_ , a sly little voice says inside his head, _not useless_.

Jurren shakes his head to get rid of these thoughts. He is not the type who waste time in old tales – is baffling, then, that he can´t stop thinking about this. The strange flustered feeling hasn´t disappeared. Instead, it got… stronger, spreading warmth under his neck every time the image of Prince Emmanuel comes to his mind.

The youngest and reclusive prince Emmanuel Ghesho, with twirling strands of dark gold and penetrating sky-like eyes. Of silvery and purple robes and an elegancy in his facial features that makes one uncertain if they are faced with a man or a woman unless they were to glance down in an... _uncouth_ manner… to check. To see his smooth chest, his slimness that doesn´t quite make him skinny or gangly, if only because of that inherent softness of someone who doesn't really have the need for muscles. Who travels in carriages, never on foot or by horse, and never carries anything more than his own self - how delicate must be his skin, Jurren´s mind whispers, if it´s free of the calluses or scars that dot his own, free of any hardship and labor... soft and yielding to the touch, without that wired stiffness of muscles but enough for you to feel it quivering under your palms while spreading his legs open gently…

 _Stop it_.

“Jeez,” he murmurs, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand. He´s suddenly very, _very_ thankful for the full-body armor the guards have to use. Maybe he should go visit a girl's house tonight if only thinking about this is making him react this much – how long has it been since he last slept with someone? Jurren can´t recall but he wills himself to believe it has been a while.

The alternative is that he´s turn on by a man.

Sure, a man with a pussy, but still a _man_. Even worse, a fucking _prince_. Which would add the whole ‘public shaming’ deal the ‘getting his dick chopped off’ part. The rich folk enjoying themselves is one thing since they are free to do whatever they want but a simple peasant like him shouldn´t even dream of doing something as outrages as fantasying about royalty. Besides, Jurren likes tits as much as he likes pussies, so a man with a little hole between his legs should not be as hot as a fully functioning woman.

He just needs to let off some steam tonight. That´s all. All this thinking about pussies is what´s bothering him, not-… not the idea of cold and aloof Prince Emmanuel with his pearl skin warmed by color, a rush of faint red on his cheeks. Of his blue eyes flicking shyly up to Jurren as he lets himself be pushed on a mattress, before shutting them closed, pink lips parting beautifully when Jurren sinks his head between his thighs and--

Jurren breathes in sharply and shakes his head, once, like a dog trying to dry off. _This is ridiculous, control yourself!_ He tries to calm down and direct his mind to unpleasant things, aiming to will the heat under his skin away. But it´s useless. He can feel himself straining against the coldness of the armor, each throb sending a jolt through his spine. And after agonizing minutes, it starts to become unbearable. He gives up and, using the excuse of a bathroom break, goes take care of his situation. He tries to keep it practical at first, touching himself to make himself come quickly but the pleasure is intoxicating – and all the images he was forcing away floods his mind, of soft body and blond hair. His body is hot and sweaty under the armor and he has to bite his lips to stop himself from moaning obscenely loud when he finally cums, thrusting against his hand most vigorously.

“Fuck,” He groans, voice hoarse, staring at his own hand, sticky and so damn wet. And Jurren _knows,_ with a stomach twisting-certainty, that he hasn´t jerked off this good in _months_.

Face hot with shame and arousal, Jurren decides to visit the girls' house this night. _I just need some nice fucking,_ he tells himself while quickly cleaning himself, ignoring the heavy thudding of his heart. _That´s all_.

_-_

Of course, this is the night some fucking rich ass decides he needs all the night-girls at his party. Thus Jurren is left more blue-balled than ever, nerves feeling raw and boiled as the night deepens, so much that he thinks he transcended past mere frustration to an entirely new level of desperation. For his mind, cooked in a frenzied fever, seems to have _latched_ onto Prince Emmanuel in a manner reminiscent a hound sinking its teeth bones-deep into a deer´s neck, relentlessly in its hunger no matter how much its prey fights and tosses around in its attempts to free itself. Jurren isn´t entirely sure who he is in this metaphor, for all that he _feels_ like an animal. Just not sure which.

Prey or predator.

The hard, pure shame makes sure he doesn´t degrade himself even lower by touching himself again. But _heat_ doesn´t go away, seeping through his flesh and skin until he´s drenched in sweat, his clothes sticking onto him like an uncomfortable second skin. He changes shirts after he sneaks his way back into the castle and into his quarters - but when it also gets soaks after a few hours of him laying wide awake in the bed, he decides it´s a lost battle. His mind is mostly focused on his aching dick, anyway, that _refuses_ to go down doesn´t matter how many times Jurren splashes his face with cold water. He feels like a teenager again, all hormones and unexplainable boners that demands his attention.

Except this one is making its goddamn 'explanation' inexhaustibly clear.

So, naturally, Jurren decides to drink. He uncorks an emergency rum stack hidden on the guard´s ward and gulps down an entire bottle since it is no secret that alcohol is not a friend of men in bed. But as the first bottle is tossed to the ground, he´s _still_ hard as steel, the skin of his thighs almost fucking fizzling - therefore he opens the second one, yanking off the cork with his teeth and then drinking it up with a determination that blends on frenzy. It continues not to work. Instead, he could say it gets _worse_. A buzzing sets inside his brain, making his scalp tingle as the tightening in the base of his stomach aggravates, the tent of his pants almost obscene when he can feel himself starting to leak. Hotness without end pours from his body, boiling him alive on top of the bed until he decides to ditch his bedroom, legs a bit uncertain underneath him as he walks.

By the third bottle, he´s too drunk to rationalize drinking is not solving his problem and he should just stop but at this point, he´s also too drunk to _remember_ his problem. At least to the degree that expands outside his most unbelievable hard _dick_ and the unfathomable reason why he can´t get it down, no matter how many times he jerks off.

There´s only the recognition of a deep, hungry _need_ inside him, demanding and demanding. His hand is simply not enough. He needs- something. More.

 _More_.

He only realizes _what_ when he stumbles upon an open door and sees it: the shy moonlight slicing the semi-closed curtains to kiss gently a beautiful sleeping form, laying over soft pillows on an immense bed with the canopy draw open. Even from the door, Jurren can see the silky curls spread on the white mattress, like golden threads, the lean back raising and falling quietly under the red blanket of the person laying belly down, face buried in the pillow. There´s a single, fair foot slipped out from underneath the covers, and Jurren watches enchanting little toes curling and uncurling for a few seconds, hypnotized.

He enters the bedroom as silently as he can and approaches the bed. A hand stretches forward to touch the exposed foot, brushing gently over the pale sole and marveling at its softness. _Not a single callus_. He slides fingers lightly over the delicate ankle and pushes up the cover slowly, together with a cream-colored nightgown, exposing more and more beautiful, smooth skin. A soft sigh darts his eyes up.

_What a nice, beautiful dream._

Even in his inebriated self Jurren knows better then think he could simply stumble upon _Prince Emmanuel_ , the very object of his fantasies, sleeping peacefully for his eyes to feast over... - delicate, lovely face, sprinkled with irregular dots across the nose and cheeks like sugar dust, long eyelashes casting shadows and rosy lips, thin and cute and perfect to bite, slightly open as he breathes quietly.

He reaches out, a little sad to break the illusion, but compelled to touch if only for the brief second of his fantasy. His hand lands on a dusted cheek – and meet warm, soft skin. His heart flutters inside his chest with a feeling his intoxicated self cannot name but makes him brush a thumb over the delicious lips, feeling warm breath caressing his hand. _How could anyone deem you lacking?_ Jurren himself used this same word to describe Prince Emmanuel and is marveled at his stupidity. The boy in front of him is nothing if stunning, breath-taking _beautiful_.

Graceful golden eyebrows draw together lightly and the guard watches the little prince turn his face against the pillow, a subtle shudder traveling his body, the exposed leg pulling closer with dainty toes curling together. An enticing red takes over the fair skin as a low, silky moan is muffled.

Oh?

Maybe the fact he never had been more turned on in his life made him something of a hunting hound because on this instant he could swear a scent tickles his nose. A sweet, raw odor, familiar to him from bothered maidens with thighs rubbing together, that makes his mouth water. He travels down the sleeping figure without a second thought and slides both hands under nightgown, over warm thighs, and pushes it up and over the perky roundness of the prince´s behind, groaning at finding him without undergarments. Yes, of course in his dreams Prince Emmanuel would be the type to sleep in the nude…

He sinks his hands into the heavenly cheeks with ravishing delight, finding it subtly firm under pressure yet still yielding, conforming to his every finger. “ _God_ ,” He moans under his breath. _What amazing piece of ass_ … He massages and rolls those cheeks, watching subtle ripples spreading along after his hands. And when he parts them, he glimpses then something between and beneath, a dark fold of flesh. And the sweet smell grows stronger.

Yes, the dark, sweet, _sweet_ royal treasure.

The prince leaked a breathy sigh at the kneading of his ass but as Jurren pushes a finger into his little secret, it turns into a muffled whine. He slowly slides in, knuckle after knuckle, feeling its velvet warmth with a thrill of arousal, watching it flex around his finger. In no time his finger is soaked wet, and the smell is _amazing_ , watering his mouth to the point he just can´t resist anymore – _what´s the harm?_ Jurren asks himself, nodding sagely as he unties his pants one-handed and pushes it down just enough to free himself, too impatient to properly unclothe, _there is no way this is real_. Therefore, nobody would mind if he took a little taste. After all, it´s all inside his drunk, aroused delusions. He´d probably wake up tomorrow tangled in the sheets of one of the empty bedrooms, with a sore dick and cum-stained pants…

In his intoxicated state, it takes a little figuring how to angle, wobbling above the sleeping figure on all fours before he finds the best place to kneel, and then he uses one hand to guide in the already leaking tip. He breathes a shaky moan as he feels imaginary lips parting around him, the inside slick and impossibly hot, before his point nestles tight against that little ring of muscle. He throbs hungrily, biting his lips as he reaches and holds the lean hips only just exposed, back and shoulders still covered with the nightgown and red covers. Then drawing a deep breath, Jurren leans in, pushing that snug spot with surprising difficulty, and an almost audible moan breaks from the prince as he starts to open around him.

Jurren let go of himself to hold the other side of the younger boy´s waist, brows drawing together as his mouth hangs open, feeling the incredible embrace squeezing his head as it passes the little wet hole. The prince gasps faintly, stirring, hands closing tight around a fistful of sheets as the guard rolls his hips, grinding in.

“Ahh... ahh-!" Emmanuel blinks awake suddenly blushing, mind full of cotton trying to interpret the intense sensations washing over him. "Wha-? Nnnhh...!" He swallows his voice startled at its loudness, bursting out of him without his control. _What it is_ \- Something- something- is _inside him!_ It pushes, hot and hard and big, spreading him _open_ , sending white shocks through his body at each inch- his back arches and he stuffs his face into the pillow, another loud- _noise_ breaking out of him as more slides in, rubbing and dragging his wet lips. _What´s happening?_

He twists with difficulty, peering over his shoulder to see what- but to his stun is rather a _who_. Rough, big hands are holding firmly to his waist, full of scars and callus, keeping him still as the shadowy figure looming behind him roll powerful, still clothed hips against him, finally hilting the last inch in his pussy. Harsh fabric brushes his bare thighs as small pubic hair tickles his burning skin, a long, low groan filling the air, Emmanuel quivering helpless.

His mind is a flurry of befuddled thoughts, confusion, fear, and flustered pleasure crumbling his attempts to process what is happening and the figure covered in the darkness behind him. A person. A man. _A man is inside me_ , he thinks as he feels the enormous, unyielding, _hot-_ thing, straining against his wall deep within his body. A man´s cock. He trembles, wringing tight at that rock-hard shaft, and the man purrs a faint moan, pushing in, grinding tight to his cheeks. And Emmanuel keens against the pillow as his pussy makes a wet sound with the movement, leaking fat drops to run down his thighs to the bed – for the ich deep within him that has been bothering him the entire day is… being scratched, soaking him with melting relief.

It feels- _amazing_. And for that alone Emmanuel could believe this is nothing more than a dream, delusions, and fantasies of someone overlooking his- his body enough to _want_ him. To want to _fuck_ him, to make him feel good the way he read in his books, the way his sisters and sometimes even servants talked about.

But- the hands on his waist slides over his back, under his clothes, rough palms making him shiver, to grasp at his shoulders with fingers rubbing his muscles with greed. Thumbs knead the spot at the base of his skull in the back of his neck, and Emmanuel relax without meaning to, and when the man moves, the alien, unfamiliar feeling of a hard cock slurping as slides out from him washes through him, making him drawn out a long moan. It is just too-… _intense_ , too _real_. Emmanuel only has second-hand stories and some occasions of catching people having sex in parties to guide him in what it would feel like.

This – feeling veiny girth grazing his insides, the tip rasping heavenly against the wall underneath his spine due to a slight curve of its length, his little ring burning and stretched so open, more than he ever thought possible… – so many details, solid, undeniable. There is no way Emmanuel could have imagined all this on his own, not even in a lucid dream.

The man sinks inside once more, liquid scraped from that shaft running down his quivering pussy, seeming to hiss when it touches his scorching, boiling folds. The rush of pleasure makes his eye water, a whine pouring from over his tongue and into the pillow already slobbered with his drool from where he´s biting it, and a part of him screams in clear rationality – there is a man inside his room, on top of him! A stranger who simply broke into his tower and his bedroom in the middle of the night, and is now stealing his- his virginity! _Do something_ , this part of his demands, _don´t just stand there and let this- this brute violates you this way!_

But… his entire body is sweltering with an acute need, shaking with an emotion he can´t push down. No one has ever touched him before, much less has he ever gone so far as-… as to try things back there. The only experience he has is his fingers, and they are paling in comparison to… to a real cock! Plowing his insides, scratching needy depths he never managed to relieve… H-how many times had he dreamed about something like this? He can feel hungry, _male_ fingers gripping his shoulders, pushing him against the bed, the inside of his thighs growing slick with the juices they are both drooling. His breathes are warm steams rolling over his back, grave groans caressing his neck, breaking in tandem with the firm, hungry rolls of his hips, grinding tight to his cheeks. And inside him...!

Emmanuel sobs, hopelessly aroused. He can´t help but seize around it, shivering at each inch dragged out, the shuddering rasp of friction seeming to echo up his spine. And he shoves it home, groaning in delight over his back, and they both feel as the head brushes against… something. A little, second fold. The man growls and grinds in insistently, dragging to one side and the other against that strange, flexible limit. Emmanuel bristles with powerful, intense shivers, rolling his head to the side to pant loudly, hands grasping the sheets under the pillow. And when he finds it again, tip caught lightly and plumbs into it fiercely by pulling him against their point of connection at the same time he pushes in, all Emmanuel´s air burst out from him in a high cry.

The hot, swollen head wedges into a little, hidden crevice, squeezing in so violently that Emmanuel fears he plans to simply puncture him. Strong arms suddenly circle him as a weigh lands on top of his back, warm breath with low growls pouring directly at his ear, hips digging his insides. All of sudden, then, a stinging, _vivid_ feeling burns all-consuming through his very core as the tip _tears_ a new hole inside him – or that´s what Emmanuel thinks in the first caustic, overwhelming second, eyes popping open and mouth hanging down with no sound, trembling speechless as he _feels_ the searing flesh ram in impossible deep inside him.

But no agonizing pain comes.

Instead, he feels… he feels…! Too much, too intense! He can´t say if there´s pain or not, just that is almost unbearable, but when the man drags out in impatient jerks, pulling one way or the other without caring about the mess he´s doing to his insides, until the head finally pops out of that depth, what comes out of his throat is a loud, needy moan. Another fierce push of those hips and that- that limit is stabbed, again, the scorching hot cock beginning to saw through him – Emmanuel crumbles in a quivering mess, sinking his face into the pillow to avoid his moans from echoing through the entire castle. Its when he feels his nightgown shift, straining. He drags a half-numb hand down, searching to grasp at his belly.

He is-… The realization warms his face, disbelief fluttering his heart – his lower belly curves outward and flattens under his palm, a small bulge appearing from the pubic area up until almost… almost under his bellybutton, then evening out. As… as the man pulls out. _Oh god_ , _he´s… he´s inside it_ , he suddenly comprehends as he pulls a shivering breath, body burning in arousal. _He´s inside my uterus_.

In seconds, heat seizes his pussy in a terrible tingle and a cry is pounded out of him, gasping and panting as he clutches tightly in desperate need around that ramming cock, fucking his most sacred place. And a wave of pleasure floods his body, sudden and powerful, wracking raw his every nerve as light explodes behind his eyelids, and he screams into the pillow, body draw taut trembling as surge after surge of bliss and relief engulf his very being. The man doesn´t stop moving, instead, he seems to grow faster, drilling in with more vigor as if to enjoy the powerful cumming hug of his internal muscles.

Emmanuel comes down from his orgasm drawing a shuddering breath, out of air, to the still relentless rutting of that man, hammering shallow but merciless strokes, hungry hips pounding him down into the bed, fingers digging his sides. His chest surging against his back as he gasps, breathes rasping his skin while he nuzzles his hair, and Emmanuel could have sworn he got bigger inside him…! “Nmng-!” Even climaxing, he still doesn´t have a choice but to bite the pillowcase hoping to muffle the sounds being shoved up through his throat as the strange man uses his pussy, face burning hot.

This is madness! What is he doing, just letting a- a complete stranger do this to him? H-he should... stop him or something! He is r-raping him in his own bed, and... and someone could see them…!

Suddenly, the man slams through his uterus with a shattering roar, slapping hips against his already sore ass, and Emmanuel arches his back under the powerful pressure with a cry. That thick shaft flares with fat, straining throbs, stretching him past his limit painfully. God _. God-!_ And then _heat,_ like he never felt before, explodes at his very core, wonderfully, soldering hot, spreading into his flesh in seconds. It floods his sacred temple with a single, powerful jet, and every lasting pain is relieved as this warm, amazingly burning feeling _fills_ him whole. Emmanuel gasps as his belly bulges slightly for a brief moment under his hand, before the heat seems to spirt from around that head buried inside him to the rest of his hole, a torrent of warmth that overflows, gushing out from around the point where they are sealed together, streaming down his thighs in heavy flows.

The wet spot underneath them grows and a puddle starts to form as the man keeps firing more and more, grinding in heavy circles, stirring each fresh load. His insides sloshing, Emmanuel shivers and moans shamelessly into the pillow as his body seizes up, finding himself squeezing around the stranger, milking every last drop of pleasure and drawing a low growl of the man – more than his pussy, his _body_ is being stuffed full and it’s a pleasure he can´t describe. Emmanuel never thought that being used… would feel _this good_.

There are a few moments of… not, not _silence_ , with their heavy breathes ricocheting on the stone walls loud and violent, the air buzzing with hot steam as the man fills him with one last gush of sizzling seed, grinding at his uterus with deep, satisfied groans. But stillness, like time pausing for a single, lasting moment, where they are both reduced to nothing but two bodies, wrapped in a bubble of heat and powerful, musky smell, together with sweat and something-something more Emmanuel can´t name. And it lingers, even when all volition is drained from his trembling limbs, as he gasps for precious air lost in a haze of aching satisfaction while hearing the man breathing heavily above him, like a satiated beast.

For a few moments, and then the coated cock inside him moves, a wet slurping sound echoing as that seemly infinity shaft drags out while the man sighs. Emmanuel shivers, biting back a moan, little, almost painful shocks sparkling up his body, his sensible walls quivering helplessly as he is emptied – the head pops out and a heavy flow of warm liquid starts to leak, like a bottle without the cork, for his poor, abused ring tries but fails to shrink back to its original size. The wet spot underneath him grows even more, the hot, musky smell getting stronger filling his nose at each struggling gasp. The hands on his waist finally release their possessive grip, leaving throbbing skin behind, and Emmanuel collapses on the bed, his tired muscles incapable of sustaining him.

The most profound sense of _relief_ floods the prince, for the unbearable ich deep within him that he has known since he turned into an adult, is finally, _finally_ gone. His face burns in shame and embarrassment, his eyes watering slightly.

There´s movement behind him and then the bed creaks and dips with new weight at his side. Emmanuel blinks heavy eyes open and turns his head with some difficulty – the shadowed form of the man who just took his virginity lays beside him on the bed, stomach up. Soon after, soft, low breathing starts coming from the man. _Is he…?_

Emmanuel falters at the swell of-of frustration. _I… I can´t see him_ … He bites his lower lip and hesitates. Then slowly pushes himself up, ignoring the small part of him yelling that he lost his mind. He swallows a whimper as his aching parts protest the movement, still somehow steadily leaking warm seed.

But then he sees. And he has to bite his lips again against the soft _Oh_ wanting to escape his mouth.

Black, straight hair spreads over his pillows, long enough to reach shoulders, sticking slightly to a face with sun-kissed skin, the right eyebrow cut in half by a thin scar. There are faint age marks around his eyes – from smiling? – and a short beard covering a strong jaw. Powerful shoulders, twice as big as Emmanuel´s, and thick, muscular arms and-… and-… feeling his face heating, the prince lands a shaking hand over the man´s chest and feels with a twist on his stomach rock-hard muscles under the shirt, slightly yielding with their owner passed out, but still so… firm. Strong. He trails fingers down slowly, the blush burning more and more terrible as he maps the size and power of the man who just took him on his own bed, shocked that he didn´t break under this person´s lust.

 _Lust_ … his eyes drop to the man´s lap unwillingly and the heat on his face spreads to his neck, to his chest, as he sees faintly the outline of the enormous cock just hanging outside of his pants, glistering with milky seed. There´s a black forest of black hair at its base, climbing up his abdomen like a sinful path, and the size and girth are enough to make the knot in his stomach blow into a hot, tingling tightness as he realizes that _this_ \- had been inside him seconds ago. It seems impossible.

Emmanuel tears his eye away, his heart beating erratically. _What am I doing?_

He lowers himself back to the bed and curls facing away from the man. Pressing his thighs together, the Prince swallows a gasp feeling a shiver climbing his spine, his abused intimacy protesting the shifting. Emmanuel shuts close his eyes as he hugs his belly, where he still can feel the ache of that man pounding inside him. The tightness there doesn´t go away, even with his muscles so tired and heavy.

He feels terribly cold and empty and _alone_ all of sudden.

 _What´s wrong with me?_ Why he didn´t stop him from- from-… He didn´t even _try_. _God_ , he _came_ from this, a shuddering, overwhelming orgasm, ten times stronger than any other he ever managed to give himself. How could he- He should call for the guards. Something. Anything. _I´m not this pathetic_ , _I´m not-!_

The bed creaks noisily and out of nowhere strong, long arms close around him, dragging him back with a yelp of surprise against a warm, powerful body, shoulders engulfing his easily as the man nuzzles the sensible patch of skin behind his ear. At the same time, he feels the man soft cock brushing his backside before he grinds once, not overly lustful but rather… snuggly, even more when he entangles their legs together.

And suddenly Emmanuel finds himself… trapped.

His mouth opens with a protest that gets stuck in his throat.

The nuzzling turns to soft kissing, an easy brush of lips over his ear and jaw, climbing lazily to the back of the neck, where it gains a hint of tongue. Just barely. Too slow to be anything but a tease. Emmanuel shivers as he blushes. “You… you´re awake…?” He mumbles, cringing at his hoarse voice.

It is the first time any of them said anything.

There´s a slight pause at the man touches and for a moment Emmanuel feels with a pit in his stomach like he broke some silent, unspoken agreement. The burning feeling of humiliation stops the plead at the tip of his tongue on the last second.

But then the man bites gently his nape, humming. And says in a slightly slurred but deep voice. “Sleep…”

“W- what?”

But nothing follows. Just a gentle, warm sigh brushing his skin, a slow press of a strong chest on his back of calm breathing. Emmanuel is still for a moment, just hearing the man sleep – but then caves to the desire to twist around on his arms, until he can press his face to the gentle curve of his neck, fingers catching his shirt tightly. Almost immediately, even sleeping, the man moves to accommodate him, one arm over his shoulders and the other around his waist, a chin over his head, before letting out a sigh of satisfaction.

The blush spreads, warming his neck to an unbearable degree, burning his ears. This seems strange, so… intimate.

It feels… nice.

With him wrapped around him this way, even without the blankets, Emmanuel doesn’t feel any cold anymore. And all the rest is lulled away with the slow breathing of the man against his body, the solid, warm presence of another human being making him finally relax.

In no time, giving way to exhaustion, Emmanuel feels his eyes closing and before he realizes, he´s sinking into a blissful sleep.


	2. somnophilia, vaginal sex, vaginal oral sex, vaginal fingering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just found out the name for a kinky i always liked but didn´t know how to call it: service top! thanks to the person who pointed out all my porn shows some type/degree of service top.

Jurren is deep within an ocean of comfort and contentment, soft muscles, willpower severed from his limbs. His mind floats back to the surface slowly. It is the kind of sleep he gets after intense exercises with the other guards, after a whole day dragging almost 30kg of armor, shield and spear, without being allowed to sit.

Jurren lets the air roll out, long. And then he inhales.

Something sweet and warm fills his lungs more delightfully, a touch of saltness, that sends a faint rumble through the back of his waking mind, stirring his sated emotions if only for a moment. He finds his mouth opening, tongue splaying a little between teeth and lip, and it begins to flavor his tongue and the roof of his mouth. It seems to build up in his nose, in is throat and… in his mind.

Jurren starts to become aware of his body – a silky material twisted around it, the softness hugging his limbs. Something warm pressed against his chest and stomach, a slight tickle in his neck and jaw. His face is buried in a pillow, he realizes. Hands underneath it. A quiet, steady movement under him, together with a faint whistling of air right at his ear. Breathing. What-

He frowns slightly, confused. Tries to move and he´s startled with a heavy groan spilling from his mouth as the shifting brings to clear, startling focus the tight, hot embrace around his very much hard dick. “F-..fuck,” His voice rasps like metal over granite, as if he stayed all night screaming. _What in the gods´ names…?_ He brings his elbows careful under him and a heavy groan gets caught in Jurren´s throat as he tries to rise. Not for the effort, but because it shifts, his cock throbbing inside pure, enveloping warmth. He pushes deeper without thinking, rasping softly then drawing a deep, shuddering breath as his hips are pushed snug to a soft behind.

He´s inside someone.

Someone with a beautiful, silky cunt sucking his dick perfectly.

Did he go to the girls´ house after all? His memory is- not there. An endless blank when he tries to recall anything from yesterday night. There´s a heavy pounding inside his head which signals that he did drink, and enough to give him ‘morning-after sickness’. The scent fills his nose, taunting him about memories he should have. Thick. Warm.

His brain swirls in his skull and Jurren blinks bleary, trying to ward off the sleepiness at the same time a moan fills his mouth because he can´t help grinding into this beautiful, wet hug, shivering at the way he can feel her gripping at him all the way to the base. F- fuck, all the way… in! It was so difficult to find a girl that could take him girth alone, always requiring an exhausting amount of preparation and patience, and even the most experienced lovers hardly could handle him entirely, always leaving one or two inches out…

And Jurren was not one to _insist_ , to push and force himself deeper when it caused most woman obvious pain since he didn´t like to think of himself as a cruel man. Sex, in his opinion, even paid sex, was something to be pleasurable to all involved and it´s not like he needed to be fully taken to be good, anyway. He got used to fucking with some inches left out.

He can´t remember the last time he had a woman´s ass squeezed against his lap… Fuck- he could feel a powerful tightness around the base of his head, almost as if trying to choke it. It- is that her cervix? Jurren swallows, a sigh trembling his throat as curly blond hair comes into focus before him, but his muscles are flexing and his hips roll on their own, pulling a few inches out only to sink back, and his mouth gapes as he _moans_. Pleasure like he´d never known rushes over him and it feels so good around him, all squishy and wet and warm- and then the face underneath him focus.

Suddenly with lack of air, as drowsiness disappears Jurren freezes with eyes wide.

Prince Emmanuel Ghesho´s golden hair is stuck to his forehead with sweat, flawless skin flushed red and mouth slightly open, breathing a little too fast, a little too loud. Golden eyebrows pull together delicately, eyes moving under the eyelids and Jurren can´t breathe – his heart lurches and stops at the same time, his body hot and cold in terror.

A hole opens in his stomach, twisting his muscles with iron claws. This is impossible. What- how-

A shudder travels the younger body under him and Jurren gasps when he feels the warm walls clutching at him, the _prince_ ´s pussy massaging over his twitching length. He bites back a curse, choking, a shiver of pleasure climbing his spine and he can´t avoid arching a little, grinding and he´s leaking – they both are, his thighs wet with their combined juices. The boy whimpers faintly and the sound is like a shock of thunder through him, he can feel himself pulsating thick throbs as he looks down once again at prince Emmanuel, heart hammering inside his chest.

He´s still asleep but he is frowning slightly, his shoulders raised and his once-relaxed hands beside him on the bed pulled close, gripping the pillow. His thighs are soft where there are around Jurren´s hip still dressed in pants and underwear if barely, together with his shirt. They two are almost fully dressed, he realizes. Jurren can feel where the boy's nightgown is wrapped around his belly between them, both of them tangled in the red covers.

Jurren swallows, his throat suddenly dry. He tries desperately to remember the events of the night before, but nothing comes to him except an eternal white. He had been frustrated with his plans of going to the girls' house because they were all ranted or something, right? He returned to his rooms and-

What?

What in the gods´ names happened?

Jurren breathes out as his arms trembles, not with the effort of holding himself up but with the effort of holding _back_ – the smell of him is sweat and sex and a little bit of something more, personal, and Jurren is torn between arousal and terror. How did this happen? He´s- he´s balls-deep inside the youngest prince of the kingdom, the _asleep_ _youngest_ _prince_. Fucking balls-deep! His mind spins, his heart about to explode or stop, whichever comes first.

He tries to breathe, but his throat seems to have shrunk. The air does not go down far enough. He thinks of looking around, trying to find clues to what the hell happened last night, but his eyes are frozen on the prince's face. He can´t look away.

 _He´s as beautiful as they say_.

Jurren swallows again. _More_ , he thinks.

 _He´s perfect_.

He grits his teeth, shaking away these thoughts roughly. A tremor has settled in his bones and he can't tell if it's horror, fear or- or...

Breathing in slowly, he starts to draw back carefully.

His canal is a sleeve of sweet, textured flesh, dragging deliciously tight over him and the shaking gets worse, muscles burning with the effort of resisting the urge to- to... Jurren squeezes his eye shut, teeth grinding bared. _Do it_ , every part of his body begs, _do it_. Goddamnit, he can´t- his head gets stuck, a strangling ring of muscles crushing it and keeping it jealously and Jurren has to stop, a half-hearted tug enough to freeze him with the surge of pleasure it brings. He muffles a moan into the pillow above the boy´s head.

“ _Fuck_ …” Breathing faster, vision swirling, he slides his face down without thinking, nuzzling the golden curls. He has a white-knuckle grip in the sheets under the pillow, muscles cracking and cramping.

His goddamn cervix, isn´t it? The strange, overwhelming texture caressing his cockhead, resisting him, pushing aside and straining around his size… it´s his womb. The realization is like a bath of hot water, arousal like no other and his control slips, crack, _breaks_ \- he sinks back into a firm stroke, punching this impossible smoothness and he shudders with an open-mouthed moan. The boy whimpers underneath him, muffled in his chest, thighs twitching around his hips but Jurren´s mind is liquifying. He presses against the smaller body and pulls back, feeling him seizing around him- then he thrust again. Teeth bared, his breath caught, he feels the prince arching, soft hair brushing the underneath of his jaw, a gasp this time.

His hips roll, not stopping. He can´t. The pressure of his insides resisting him is addicting, the madding contrast between his sex clutching at most of his length and his deepest chamber teasing incessantly at his tip, and Jurren keeps going, unable to stop. He pulls back, quivering, telling himself this time- this time he´ll pull out, he will- and then that tight ring of resistance again and he punches into his womb like a reflex, gasping a moan of pure ecstasy. It is so wonderful, so terribly pleasurable that it pains him. But he can´t stop, and he can´t bring himself to draw enough to allow sweet relief.

“Damn it…” He breathes out shakily, letting his forehead rest in the pillow. He can feel the sweat trickling down his back. He´s already teetering on the edge, he knows, the slow, shallow thrusts enough to break him, deep, desperate grinds of his hips, bed creaking softly. The boy whimpers are starting to rise, head pushing against his as he arches and shivers, hands twisting into the pillowcase. His breathing speeding up. 

_He´s going to wake up_. Jurren swallows, vision blurring. His joints creak as he moves to hold the boy, to slowly circle him and bring him tight against himself with one arm. The other slides up, grasping at the iron headboard. The boy is so slick with juices that they are dripping wet where they are sealed together and Jurren can feel the exquisite stretch of his flesh strained open wide around the full, demanding swell of his girth, heavenly warmth, the tantalizing smoothness of the boy´s deepest interior giving him the gentlest stimulation. Jurren´s entire being is trembling, drunk with pleasure, and takes the summation of his body´s strength now to contain himself, to keep himself balls-deep and not draw anymore – he bucks, grinding point-blank against the prince´s womb.

 _Stop_ , the sane surviving part of him whispers. _Stop this. What are you doing?_

Jurren grits, tongue languishing against the back of his teeth, his eyes hooded… his mouth contorts with pleasure and agony, and his throat squeezes tightly shut as he violates the boy´s holy chamber this way, quiet and not pulling back a single inch. As if it´d make a difference. The bed keeps creaking. The pleasure of that hole is intoxicating, inundating his senses, making his skin tingle all down his arms as his hand tighten on the small body. It doesn´t matter. Emmanuel tosses his head, thighs squeezing his hips. Rasping cries pour from the younger man, breaking in tandem with the rhythmic thrust of Jurren´s hips.

“A- ah-!” The prince´s back leaves the bed, head falling back. Suddenly he lets out a quavering, full-chested moan and he seizes around Jurren´s cock tight, milking him powerfully and Jurren shudders thickly at the feeling of the boy´s orgasm gripping him, his balls churning in a warning and all he can do is dig tight to that soft ass before flooding the very deepest reaches of that boy instantly. He lets lose a throaty moan into the golden hair, a ripple traveling his body as he pumps him full of cream, grinding slowly against the quivering form underneath him.

The space between them is soaked with excess as the boy melts backs down to the bed, shivering, Emmanuel´s moans falling, soon drawing into breathy, sagging whimpers. Jurren exhales deeply, shakily, as he empties the very last into the boy. Sex flavors the air, steaming hot, lingering even as Jurren finally relaxes, volition draining from his limbs. He blinks, unseeing eyes seeing again as he comes back, not entirely sure if he didn´t blackout for a little bit, in the haze of aching satisfaction.

Jurren breathes out, a warm puff of hair ruffling the golden hair as he leans back carefully, body weak and full of shivers of the aftermath of his orgasm, heart heavy in his chest. The younger body under him is equally soft, smooth chest heaving as Emmanuel breaths, skin flushed red and gleaming with sweat. He then looks down… the wrinkle between the yellow eyebrows smooth out slowly, little pink mouth slightly open.

A few heartbeats later, and his breathing quiets. All tenseness disappears.

Jurren stares at the sleeping boy, an indescribable sentiment rolling inside him cruelly, incessantly. The fog of pleasure and his orgasm is dissipating and his rationality slides back like poison gas – he swallows, closes his eyes and slips out of the boy, swallowing and gnashing his teeth as he carefully removes himself from the prince's womb. A shiver when his head pops out and is immediately greeted by the terrible squeeze of the canal. He slides out as fast as he dares, not daring to linger inside that grip even with his cock softening as it is.

He tucks himself inside his pants hurriedly, ignoring the obvious stains scattered across the fabric and gets up from the bed, tripping out when his legs prove unable to support him – knees shaking, all his muscles protest. His breathing is shortening and Jurren knows what's going on, recognizes the panic curling around his neck.

He doesn't look back as he runs away from the room, even with his conscience burning.

-

Sitting on the bed, Jurren has his head resting on his hands, eyes squeezed shut.

The towel and his clean clothes are where he threw them on the floor, side by side with the remains of a bucket. Sweat is dry on his skin and his clothes are moist and his whole body exudes a heavy, impregnating smell of sex that chokes his nose, fills his lungs with each strained breath. His skin is still full of goosebumps. His heart still crackles loudly in his chest, heavy. Jurren can hear – _t-tum, t-tum, t-tum..._ The sick knot twisting his stomach is unable, however, to suppress the tingling climbing his thighs.

Jurren exhales slowly, shakily. Lick his dry lips.

He can taste his own sweat. The smell seems to have covered the inside of his mouth, a thick, sticky layer – no matter how many times Jurren swallows, he can still taste it. The sight of the small pink mouth, half-open, panting... Jurren shudders, bites his tongue hard.

He should take a bath, he knows. It was instinctively the first thing he thought of when he got to the safety of his room. His destroyed wooden bucket is the result of him snapping out of his panic; the cold wave of realization of what he was doing when he looked at the towel in his hand. Running away. Cleaning evidence.

Evidence of what?

Jurren slides his hands through his hair and grips it tightly, pulling. He swallows again through his dry mouth and the taste of sex... sinks down his sore throat. His whole body is throbbing, but nothing compares to his head, a drum between his eyes. He tries for the twentieth time to bring back the memories of last night.

Nothing.

Nothing until his moment waking up buried inside the kingdom's youngest prince.

A man.

“Fuck…” He can feel his body stirring without his consent, heating and shivering. He can feel where his cock is tucked inside his pants, sticky wet with his own cum, starting to throb.

What the fuck happened last night?

Jurren jumps when someone suddenly knocks on his door. "What ?!" he exclaims, after swallowing down his heart.

“Get up, lazy fuck! You got five minutes to get ready! All the guards were summed to the throne room, Her Majesty orders!”

Jurren stares at the door. Does not reply. Whoever was on the other side didn't seem to care, the spectacular clear moodiness in his voice muffled by the wood echoing as he moves away to yell at another guard, and leaving Jurren alone again.

Jurren turns his eyes to his towel on the floor.

And then he closes his eyes, rubbing his face with both hands. They are shaking.

-

 _Doesn't matter_ , whispers maliciously a voice inside his head, _you know exactly what happened_.

-

The hall is empty when the arrival of the castle guards is announced. The cracking of synchronized boots on the marble floor and the flare of armor in the morning light coming from the windows fills the place up to the ceiling, men and women in helmets, shields, and spears pouring into formation until the last guard steps into the hall and everyone move together. A single organism, tapping their spears on the ground and joining their feet.

The doors are slowly closed, the sound loud in the quiet place.

Jurren, more or less in the middle, does not dare to look back, eyes fixed in a straight line. The great red and gold throne looms over its platform, the wall behind covered with thick curtains and intrinsic designs telling the story of the royal family. And yet the Queen claims the attention of everyone in the room as flies to the light. Crownless and in a red dress that spills at her feet, her long golden hair braiding around her head before falling to her waist is her natural crown. The grey eyes are clear even from so far away, reflecting the light that comes from the windows.

Her countless earrings sparkle as she tilts her head slightly and she slides a long, sharp fingernail through her red lips. “Is that all the guards?” She asks and the Guard Captain, kneeling at the bottom of the throne platform, answers without raising her head.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

The Queen hums, and blinks long eyelashes slowly, leaning back in the throne. She then rotates her wrist, palm up, and it appears to be a sign as there is a slight movement behind the curtains. And Jurren swallows hard as Emmanuel Gheso steps out, dressed in royal robes of purple and silver.

His curvy hair falls slightly damp around his face without his crown as he stops beside his mother, hands behind his back and shoulders perfectly erect. And as he looks up, pale eyes sweeping the room with indifferent coldness, it's easy to see that the young prince has just come out of a bath, his normally pale skin flushed to light pink.

As his gaze passes over him for a moment, Jurren drops his eyes to the ground, a white-knuckle grip around his spear. The sweat born from heat and nervousness breaks cold on his back.

_You should have surrendered when you had the chance._

Jurren exhales slowly and closes his eyes.

_If you have the minimum of moral integrity, you will do the right thing now._

Emmanuel finishes inspecting the room and leans toward his mother, muttering something in her ear that cannot be heard. The woman taps a finger over one cheek and gestures lazily and elegantly to the crowd in front of her. “The first row, remove your helmets.”

There is a second of confusion, but no one dares hesitate a second longer. Helmets are removed, revealing messy hair and sweating faces. The queen doesn't react, does not even seem interested in them, but Prince Emmanuel flicks his eyes over the row of guards, analyzing each one with palpable intensity. The confusion among them increases like a humming even though no one dares to try to talk or look at each other.

The bottom of Jurren´s stomach drops, more and more, an icy feeling creeping inside his chest as the prince shakes his head slightly and the Queen lazily orders. “First row, kneel. Second row, your helmets.” There´s something almost… _amused_ in her tone, a little quirk in her red lips. There is the sound of metal crackling in stone as the first row immediately kneels in sync.

The same process happens. The prince once again shakes his head after looking over the second row and the order repeats itself. _Clank_. Third row. A shake. _Clank_. Fourth. Shake. _Clank_. Fifth.

Jurren, on the sixth, stopped breathing a long time ago.

“Sixth row, helmets.”

One after another, his companions remove their helmets and Jurren is unable to do anything but obey too. His arms seem to creak like hinges without oil, the air thick like water – fingers spreading over the cold metal, Jurren swallows and closes his eyes before wrapping his fingers around the base of the helmet and pulling it off. It slides over his hair slowly and Jurren tilts his head forward, drops it in his palm, and doesn't lift his head back immediately.

Silence.

Tension fills the air when the order to kneel does not repeat, a curiosity bubbling up from all sides of Jurren. The guard finally raises his head – and meets, without surprise, Prince Emmanuel's gaze.

A shiver runs down his spine anyway.

The young man stares at him without expression, but his gaze attracts attention by itself and more than one person shifts subtly, trying to see who is that caught the third son's attention. Jurren can feel it all in the air, vibrating around him, the people most immediately around him moving slightly away and creating a small but prominent circle of space around him – and Jurren can't really care.

It's been five minutes since he last breathed.

Then Emmanuel looks away, leans over his mother. The whole hall sees him mumble a single word and the reaction in the queen's expression, which breaks like an egg to pour out a golden, interested gleam in her pale eyes that suddenly fixes on Jurren. Her hand full of rings rises toward him and a single finger crook. “Approach.”

The path ahead opens instantly.

Jurren inhales shakily, the air cold dribbling down his throat and marches forward, forcing his shaky legs not to give in. Reaching the base of the throne, he kneels, shield clanking softly on the ground to free his hand to rest over his heart as he bows in reverence, spear propped up on his side.

"Your Majesty," He says reverentially.

His voice comes out, to his surprise, calm. He doesn't raise his head.

“What's your name?”

“Jurren of Veshus Island, Your Majesty."

“Well,” she says and sounds terribly amused and it's so not what he's expecting that Jurren looks up without thinking. He meets her pale eyes dead-on, pools of ice, and interest. “Jurren of Veshus Island, congratulations are in order, I believe. You have just been promoted.”

_What?_

Jurren falters. “Pro… promoted, Your Majesty?”

“Yes. As the new personal escort of Prince Emmanuel.”

A murmur sweeps across the great hall, the collective astonishment of everyone in the room breaking at once. Not just the guards, but servants and knights as well. The queen's eyes flicker above him, to the room behind, and Jurren's eyes slide away from her too. To the figure standing a little farther back, hands clasped on his back and slightly turned away from the room as if none of its commotions had anything to do with him, head raised in a sharp angle with tense shoulders. His expression is a complete blank, cold in the way a marble statue is cold, and Jurren watches him feeling… lost.

The younger man then looks at him without moving his head, from the corners of his eyes.

Jurren stares back, trying desperately to understand. _Why didn't you throw me in the dungeons? Why didn't you report me?_

_What are you planning with this?_

Emmanuel holds his gaze for but a few seconds.

Then turn and leaves.

-

_My youngest finally listened to reason and agreed to take upon a personal escort._

Jurren stares at the tall, imposing doors without moving. His hand is grasping tightly the hilt of the brand-new sword hanging from his belt, companion to the new half-armor he was given after being told to return the old one to the guard’s armory. As it´s unfit to a ‘royal escort’. The new one is lighter, much more comfortable and of a quality Jurren is sure he is unsuited to properly appreciate. It feels strange on his body, used to the rough weight of the old armor.

_You are to guard my son at all times, every day. Follow him wherever he goes, whenever he goes and obey his every command._

Taking a deep, slow breath, Jurren knocks. There´s a pause where he expects someone to turn the corner and asks him what in the name of God he thinks he´s doing here. Or some knight to appear with their sword draw out and the Queen´s orders to kill him like a pig for dare touching her son.

Then a silvery voice speaks from inside, muffled by the door.

“Come in.”

Jurren swallows as he recognizes Prince Emmanuel´s voice – echoing inside his head, soft and beautiful while breaking and gasping, mingling with a hot, tight, wet pleasure, smooth skin, and the smell of sex and cum. It's the voice that tormented his every breathing second since he woke up this morning, filling him with a mix of guilt and arousal.

God, even _now_ …

He rubs a hand over his neck to calm himself before pushing the heavy door. The hinges barely make a sound of so well-oiled, swinging the black lumber away to reveal an enormous room. Bookcases filled to the brim with scrolls and books cover the walls, interleaved by beautiful paintings and statues, a huge chandelier hanging from the tall ceiling with unlit candles giving the last part of the frame as his eyes are drawn to the long, dark table sitting in front of the huge window of ornamental glass, heavy purple curtains open to let the faint light in. And to the soul of this portrait in front of the table, standing out like the glitter of gold among rusted iron.

_It´s a great honor. My son chose you personally._

Jurren forces himself to breathe.

Donned in the same dark purple robe from before, with stripes of silver circling the sleeves ends and around the neck, he has a book open in one hand full of rings of gold, silver and precious stones. The other rests on the table, tapping a single black nail on the surface with something like boredom – or nervousness. There´s a silver ring with a pearl on the finger, which stops moving once Prince Emmanuel turns to him, his chain earring chiming delicately with the movement, swinging from underneath the yellow locks.

Light blue eyes land upon him, cold and unreadable and even so his breath stutters inside his lungs at the sight. For just like this morning, Jurren cannot help but feel like he´s in the presence of a creature from his childhood fairy tales.

A nymph, or a siren, ready to enchant him.

His legs soften on their own and as natural as breathing he kneels, head bending forward and a fist resting over his chest. “Your Royal Highness,” He says reverently. Guilty. Terrified.

A burning shame tears through him, condemning him as the sinner and the monster he is.

“Jurren, is it?” His voice is but a melody, smooth and quiet, every word ringing perfectly. His name never before sounded more beautiful and yet so out of place, coming from those lips.

(it sounds so different from this morning, from muffled moans and voice cracking and quivering, wordless sound of pleasure and begging _for more_ -)

He draws in a silent, shaky breath before answering. “Yes, Your Royal Highness.”

There is a snap of a book being closed. “I have been told you are new to the castle.”

 _He researched me._ “Yes, Your Royal Highness.”

The prince hums. “How it´s have been for you so far? Up to your standers?” He would've sound disinterested if not for something… acid, about his words. And Jurren thinks he must be right – that it was not boredom he saw before but rather nervousness. Some sort of agitation.

Of course, seeing that he recognized him in the Great Hall…

“Beyond anything I could imagine, Your Royal Highness.”

The floor creaks under quiet steps. “Have you acclimatized to the castle then? It's every crook and nook, halls, rooms, wards… After all, you are here to protect it.”

“I…” Jurren falters, confused. “N-no, not yet, I´m afraid. I still get lost fairly often.”

“Really,” The word is said flat but something hard about it makes dread twist his stomach. Open purple shoes stop right in front of him, the silvered end of the rob swaying. “Then I have to wonder how you managed to find my private rooms last night.”

He inhales sharply and looks up. “Your Highness-”

_Smack!_

He hears before he feels the slap – when he´s suddenly looking to a bookcase to his left, right ear ringing. Slowly, numb with shock, he covers his stinging cheek, feeling the skin hot under his palm. Throbbing. He touches something wet, and when he brings his fingers to his eyes, red tints his fingertips as he feels a single drop streaming down his cheek. He looks up then, once more.

Prince Emmanuel still has his right hand raised, fingers full of rings, as his eyes burn ablaze in fury, expressionless face full of hard lines.

“Or perhaps it was a matter of chance, you simply stumbling upon me when any other warm body would had satisfied you?”

His voice cracks like thunder, even if he doesn´t make the spectacle of screaming.

Jurren lets his eyes drop to the floor before closing them. “Your Highness shall send for my execution?” He asks calmly, accepting. Even if the events of this morning were rather confusing, the ceremony and being promoted in such public fashion… it's the only logical path he can see. And he doesn´t object it.

The taste of his cowardliness for not taking his own life away the second he understood what he did is now compensated by the knowledge that, at least, Prince Emmanuel can kill him himself now.

“I should. I should order for your execution on the fire,” Emmanuel hisses, words breaking full of hatred. “ _Answer my question_.”

Jurren opens his eyes when something clicks at the armor above his stomach, a purple-clad foot more pushing than kicking him. And perhaps the wise choice would be to allow himself to be pushed down but the fear and the shame and the terror are _gone_ , replaced by a calm sense of acceptance. Serenity. He will die, his sin shall be punished. There´s nothing left inside him but a lull peace as he realizes he has nothing left to lose. So instead of cowering, he covers the delicate curve of the boy's ankle with both hands, before one sliding up over the smooth skin of his calf and the other down. He pushes the shoe until it slips out and he can slide his hand under the heel. He leans down and brushes his lips over the gentle arch of the prince's foot.

There is a sharp inhale above him. “It _was_ a matter of chance finding Your Highness last night. But..." Jurren breathes, gently kissing the delicate ankle before climbing up, hand pushing up the robes to reveal more pale skin. “... it couldn´t have been no one else, Your Highness. No one but _you_.”

A small shiver runs over the boy in front of him, and Jurren watches golden hair standing up. He hears a dry swallow before the Prince speaks, tight voice quivering. “You were searching for me?”

Jurren leans over his knees, raising, letting the graceful foot down carefully before dragging his hand up to his calf, over the back of his knee, the other one pushing clothes away to show the beginning of a thigh that he kisses. First on the front, then on the inside.

There´s a soft, airless exhale and shaking fingers lands on his hair. “A… answer me.”

Jurren hums. “’ Searching’? No, I was trying desperately not to think of you, to ban you from my impure, lustful thoughts. When I stumbled upon Your Highness… I was weak, consumed by a desire I couldn´t control, with little thoughts to my actions beyond the deep, insatiable hunger I had for you, of the likes I never felt before in my life.” His confession is a murmur, rumbling through his chest and among them like a secret.

He sneaks an arm around a slender thigh, pulling it up and over his shoulder. The boy lets out a surprised sound, grabbing his shoulders in support, but it melts into a stifled moan as Jurren mouths the inside of his thigh, biting the tender flesh gently only to suck it and lick it. As soft as he imagined, delicate under his tongue. He keeps the robe pushed up with his other hand as he travels up slowly, breathing deeply as a familiar, sweet smell begins, purring in delight. _How wonderful_ … He focuses on the white undergarment covering the boy´s intimacy, unusually small for a man but rather… fitting for what he has.

A small, dark spot a little more down between his legs starts to appear, growing slowly, and Jurren´s mouth waters in desire as he remembers what´s just beyond this thin piece of cloth.

“Do… do you regret it?”

A hoarse, faltering question raises his eyes from the boy´s hidden honeypot. Gone is the anger, the coldness as the young prince watches him with something vulnerable in his expression, cheeks aflush with an alluring red and pinkish lips dented as he worries over them, blue eyes with heavy lids. It´s coy without being coy, honestly _shy_ in the way his shoulders are pulled together, in the hesitation in the fingers trailing his shoulders. Had Jurren been in a more rational mind, perhaps he would have found baffling this transformation from the harsh, unforgiving prince who just slapped him with a hand full of rings to this blushing, enticing creature, mumbling uncertainties like an insecure lover. But since this was not the case, the only thing he _is_ , is fucking hard, his dick filling inside his pants until he´s tenting, painfully tight.

 _God_ , he really wants to eat him up.

“Only that I may have hurt you, my prince.” He breathes and then mouths the wet spot, pressing his tongue against it before rubbing. Immediately more liquid soaks the cloth, giving him a sweet taste as the boy whimpers, clenching his shoulders. He hums in encouragement, circling the tip around the hidden little hole, taking the job to steady the prince as he falters around him.

“I-… I-…”

Trailing a hand up, Jurren pushes the little undergarment to the side before finally, _finally_ sliding his tongue between those glossed lips, stroking tenderly over the inner flesh, and excessive juices pool in his mouth with a bare tint of sweetness, running down his chin and between the boy´s legs. Emmanuel moans, breathless and shuddering. His clutch on Jurren's shoulders move to the back of his head, tightening around dark hair, as his thigh trembles and rubs against his cheek, toes curling on his back. He can feel the pure, heated need radiating from that sopping cunnie as it melts around the gentlest press of his tongue. The air is filled with confused little pants and moans, the blue, glimmering eyes shutting close at each flick of his tongue but opening soon after, glassed but intent on him _. He likes to watch_ , Jurren thinks, before closing his own eyes to focus on the pure taste of that boy – he curls past his inner lips to caress at his swollen little button, teasing it with the tip, enjoying the sincere, ragged moan it causes, the tender body bucking into his mouth in a little jerk.

“J-... Jurren-...!”

Taking the hint, he angles himself better under the trembling boy before pushing two fingers to open him up, exposing his little clitoris. He circles the quivering stud, feeling the fresh liquid of his arousal dripping down his neck, his panting blooming into a muffled cry when Jurren firms his lips around it and suckles.

“Ah-!” Emmanuel's voice is raw and desperate, begging more than ordering, fingers drawing tight around his head. Jurren hums in pleasure as his cock throbs, head dizzy with the smell of his wet sex as he sucks at the boy´s clitoris, dragging his tongue over the red knob, appreciating the keens and shivers it causes, the jerks of his hips, grinding his face in earnest need. He can feel the prince tensing at a dozen points as he nears his limit. “I-… please-!”

Suddenly there´s a heavy knock on the door and Jurren snaps from his almost trance. Prince Emmanuel whips away in a jump, hastily fixing his clothes. Gone is the shredded desire, replaced by a panicked, white face, blue eyes wide as Emmanuel grabs him and pulls him up, roughly dragging a sleeve over his face to clean the mess they made. “Here,” He whispers almost shrilly and pushes him toward the wall behind the door. “Be quiet!”

With knees soft of arousal, Jurren collapses against the stone wall but holds back any groan of pain, for the next moment Prince Emmanuel fits his feet back in the shoe and quickly walks away from the door, calling once more with a voice cold and hard like ice.

“Come in.”

Jurren stops breathing when the door is pushed open, swinging towards him and hiding him from whoever is coming in. Two small steps on the wood floor before the person stops, perhaps feeling the raw tension emanating from the young prince with his back turned towards them, angrily shifting things on the table. “Uh, Y… Your Highness?” A girl's voice speaks, uncertain.

“I hope it is important.”

A squeak like a mouse. “I´m s-sorry for disturbing, Your Royal Highness! Her Majesty, the Queen, is requesting your presence in her private lunch today.”

Emmanuel stops for a moment and Jurren can see from this angle a small fist clenching and unclenching over a patch of the robe, right above his stomach, a little to the side. As if he was holding himself back from rubbing his thigh. It's one of the most inappropriate moments to feel himself grow hot but Jurren is helpless to the arousal climbing his spine, making him throb painfully hard, as he watches Prince Emmanuel struggling with his own bothered body – for was _he_ who made him this way, his touch, his mouth... He flicks his tongue over his lips still wet from the young boy´s sweetness.

Jurren was never one to refuse an oral to his partners but this feels different. Intoxicating. His head is still buzzing, his ears padded against anything that not his heartbeat, thundering inside his chest, pumping hot blood through his body. He feels almost… drunk. High.

The knowledge that the only thing protecting him from exposure is only a few inches of wood stops him from doing something stupid. His orders were clear: _be quiet_.

So he stays quiet.

Emmanuel finally moves, turning slightly to the door and he can see his profile, expression like cold marble. No shy tenderness. No open, vulnerable eyes. “Tell my mother I will be there.”

“Y- Yes, Your Royal Highness!” There´s a fumble, like someone maybe curtseying in a hurry, before the heavy door swings away quickly, slowing down to gently click on the last inch as if the person barely remembered to _not_ slam a royalty´s door on them.

A pregnant pause.

Then blue eyes flick in his direction. Jurren meets them straight-on, the same fearlessness from before still keeping him strangely calm.

He watches the young prince divert his eye to the side, a hand still clutching his robe. After a moment of hesitation, Jurren asks quietly. “Should I leave too, my prince?”

Immediately blue eyes snap back to him, the expressionless cracking into a fierce scowl. “You´re not going anywhere unless I say so.” He snarls.

“Of course, Your Highness,” He yields easily, bowing his head.

The Prince glares at him before turning away, his head raised in an arrogant arch an easy distraction from the tense line of his shoulders, the subtle stumble on his steps as he approaches the table. Cocking his head to the side, Jurren takes in the barely visible ankles twisting together, lean muscles tensing and relaxing in a faint movement that it´s easy to imagine – and he licks his suddenly dry lips, hunger sinking claws in his lower abdomen. He moves then, almost without thinking, sliding a hand over the door to the lock.

His eyes are locked in the young prince, who turns to him when the sound of the key twisting echoes. Emmanuel´s subtle Adam's apple bobs, his mouth opening slightly – however, no words come out.

He´s coiled tight, tense like an animal staring at a predator as Jurren starts to approach but he doesn´t run, doesn´t back away. Emmanuel once more turns to the table, exposing him to his back. Jurren doesn´t hesitate to slide hands over slim hips, brushing lips over the exposed nape and feeling the delicate hair standing with his breathing. “Should we finish what we started, Your Highness?” He murmurs, his voice rasping and low. His hardness throbs impatient against the perky roundness of the prince backside and he can´t help grinding slightly, enjoying the faint sound this causes.

“I… I…” The boy seems lost for words, breathing starting to falter, hands resting on the table trembling.

His thighs start to rub together more obviously and Jurren slides down one hand down to grab the long robe, pulling it up enough to slip under, towards that sweet hided spot. Fingers slide between soft thighs easily even when they tighten, as the boy gives a quiet muffled whine, bursting into a sudden little gasp as he cups his little secret, feeling his undergarment completely soaked. Jurren groans, breathing in the golden hair. “Your Highness, you are already so wet…” He rubs gentle circles with the little space he has and feels the heat of his arousal warming his palm. “Let me take care of this for you.”

“I- I have to go meet my m-mother…” Emmanuel whimpers, leaning forward on the table.

Jurren nuzzles between his shoulder blades, spreading his free hand over one of the boy´s on the table, mind drunk and buzzing as he slips his fingers under the soaked pantie to carefully, slowly sink between silky lips. He can barely manage a sound of protest before Jurren finds what he´s looking for, the quivering little ring blinking right at his fingertip as he teases it, rubbing around and around… so small. Jurren breathes in and hooks a finger at the edge. “W-wait-…” The boy grabs his arm, shaking. His thighs flex and twitch tight around Jurren´s hand, soft flesh half-enveloping him, and yet- when he pushes in, is powerless to hold back the firm plunge of his finger. The boy´s arms falter and he fluctuates between whines and moans as Jurren slowly works in one knuckle, then the next until his palm is pressed against the hot lips, finger as deep as it can go. Jurren watches the shaking creature in front of him, heartbeats loud, breathing a little faster for some reason, as he strokes in and out, following the ripples in the delicate body as it shivers and squirms under his hands.

It- it feels exhilarating, thrilling. So much with so little… He swallows thickly and works in carefully a second finger, feeling the tight, quivering little hole stretching, fighting against the new intruder and the boy is mewling a moan, knees shaking. “N… n- stop…”

“I will try to make this quick, I promise,” Jurren says in a whisper, voice hoarse. He can feel him convulsing tightly around his fingers, massaging them. Just the thought of how that would feel, _the memory_ … it fills him with heat, a drunk, melting arousal that burns his veins and takes the space between his lungs. “I can´t let you go like this. Forgive me, my prince, it´s my fault.”

His insides are a swirling mess of liquid need, opening up to accept him into that warmth right to the last knuckle once again. And he can´t help but dragging loose and plugging in right after, slowly, firmly, seeing the little prince writhing about, hands crumpling papers on the table in a desperate grip as he supports himself on shaking arms, head hanging between tight-draw shoulders, as Jurren fingers him deliberately. It´s a new type of pleasure, hearing his shallow, noisy breathing stained with moans, leaking despite the boy´s best efforts – intoxicating him with a feeling of _power._ He feels high, mind swimming as if he had drunk bottles of rum once again, all because of this beautiful, _beautiful_ creature and the sway he has over him.

Making him feel good, making him shiver and moan even though he´s trying his best to stay quiet… Jurren swallows a thundering heart, breathless. He nudges a knee between the boy´s legs and gently pushes them apart, as he moves his free hand from the table, caressing a bristled thigh before sliding to join the other, between taunt lips to find that special spot. He presses softly as he finds it, the little puffy button, middle finger brushing around it in a tender touch while fingering him a little faster now with the free space, and the boy´s whole body jerks, leaking a high moan, arms giving in underneath him as he collapses on the table. Forehead pressing on the wood, the boy pants half-formed pleas, nails digging for some hold as his eyes squeeze shut, body trembling with new tension. “S- st- stop!” The word burst out of him, cracking, airless. A hiccup. “S- someone´s- gonna hear-…!”

“It´s okay,” Jurren breathes out a little unsteadily, nuzzling the golden hair. His legs squirming and shaking, his juices are starting to drip from his hand, finger slurping in and out, as the excess flows down the boy´s thighs. “It´s okay, Your Highness, you don’t need to restrain yourself, I locked the door. No one can enter. No one can hear us. Don´t hold back, please, just let yourself feel good. Just focus on yourself, my prince, my lord…” He kisses through his skin between words, across his neck and nape, eyes fluttering closed as he enjoys the growing shudders rippling through the younger man, his voice, his smell. _So beautiful, so perfect… how it´s possible no one ever realized that before? How can I be the first to touch you?_ “I´ll take care of everything else, don´t worry.”

Emmanuel sobs, arms sliding to curl around his head tightly. Jurren keeps mumbling sweet words on his ear, spilling gentle devotion over the skin of his shoulder and the boy´s hips trembles, starts to roll, shy, ashamed and it takes Jurren starting to grind, bucking his hips against the boy´s hard enough that the movement melts into one, to the prince start riding Jurren´s stroking fingers. They are both rocking together then, his chest filled with muffled groans as he digs between the perky, round ass cheeks, his trapped cock throbbing almost painfully. Finally, with a twist and a hook of his finger, digging at his button, a cry erupts from the young prince as his walls seize tight and strangle at his fingers in deep, rhythmic, shuddering waves. He flexes his fingers against the pressure as his juices soak down his wrist, riding out his orgasm. “That´s it… that´s it,” He mumbles, hazed eyes fixed on the trembling figure. “Everything, don´t hold back, my prince.”

The boy gasps out then, arched back finally relaxing after a long, long minute and he deflates over the table. Panting noisily, still shaking very much – Jurren is also a little out of breath, face warm and stomach clenched tight, as he watches the younger man shallows inhales moving the lean shoulders. He gently, slowly pulls his fingers out, swallowing to the feeling of the little hole squeezing around them, and brushes a soothing hand over the goosebumps on the boy´s skin, caressing, mumbling incentives.

He drags his eyes over the trembling boy in front of him, head between arms and skin flushed a beautiful red, eyes in half-lids distant and unseeing, pink mouth open as he pants with his robe pulled up to his waist, legs spread open soft from his climax with skin glistering of sweat, gluing a few golden locks… Emmanuel looks so painfully gorgeous that Jurren feels his heart stuttering.

Was this that he lost in his drunken stupor? Had Emmanuel looked like this last night? The regret that his memories cannot conjure the image is bitter, and Jurren vows to never drink again.

He tenderly brushes a few golden locks behind a pierced ear. “Better, Your Highness?” He asks quietly.

Emmanuel curls a little more over the table and doesn´t answer, turning his face to hid between his arms. Any worries, however, are pacified when the boy grabs at the sleeve of his hand brushing the blonde hair, stopping him from moving away – and Jurren´s heartbeats soften, cottony and warm, after a moment of surprise. “Your Highness?” He calls again.

He mumbles something against the table.

“Forgive me, I did not quite understand.”

There´s a pause. And then the prince raises his head a little, hair falling over his still flushed face. “Carry me to a chair,” He orders, not looking at him.

“Of course, Your Highness.” Jurren slides a hand under his prince´s knees at the same time he hugs his shoulders, pulling the younger man against his chest before gently lifting him. Emmanuel exhales shakily and hugs his neck, to his surprise, burying his face there. And Jurren feels himself suddenly filled with tenderness, fierce and overwhelming, and doesn´t move for a moment, looking a little lost to the kid in his arms.

 _I don´t quite understand what´s happening to me_.


	3. rimming, fingering, anal sex (deep penetration)

“Feeling better, my love?”

“I´m fine, mother.”

“Yes, you do look fine now,” the Queen muses while twirling her tea with a small, silver spoon. She has her cheek resting over the knuckles of her hand, a single finger – the index finger – stretched out, long, sharp, red nail resting right at the edge of her eye left eye. “Different from this morning, I must say, when you were huffing and snarling at everyone in your path like a mad dog. Dare I ask what it´s that caused your temper to shorten, now that you´re dignifying us with civilized answers?”

Emmanuel presses his lips together at the spike of annoyance but doesn’t raise his eyes from his plate. “I do not know what you speak of,” he says airily.

The Queen hums. “You do not?”

“No. Except for some remaining tiredness of a poor night of sleep, there wasn´t anything amiss this morning.”

Emmanuel stabs a tomato with his fork, careful not to scratch the porcelain (and risk getting another lecture), and brings it to his mouth, chewing it without feeling the taste at all – his skin is still prickly, chills running up and down his spine every so often as if someone was breathing on the back of his neck. Safely out of the view under the table, he keeps his legs tightly crossed. Inside his shoes, his toes are curled. His thighs are tingling. And a discomfort lights up every time he moves, right between his legs and diving _into_ him, stark and so, so very distracting. It takes almost all of his control to keep his breathing and expression steady, and no matter how hard he tries, Emmanuel _cannot_ relax.

His mother does not respond, choosing to lift the cup to her lips.

And yet he can _feel_ her stare. Like a knife scraping over his skin, without exerting enough force to draw blood.

And makes him vividly aware of Jurren a few steps behind him, standing against the wall.

The ghost sensation of the man's mouth between his thighs haunts him, the rough scrape of his tongue tasting him with a deep sound of approval. There´s a faint sting on the skin there, _from the man´s beard?_ The heat around his neck is insistent, threatening to climb his face and paint him red like a virgin maiden thinking about her crush.

 _Well_ , snide a little voice, _it´s not a wrong assessment, is it?_

Emmanuel clenches his teeth, swallowing the half-chewed food, and shoves the memories back, equally angry and frustrated. He clings onto the knife on his left hand, half-entertaining the idea of sinking it into his thigh and use the pain to force his head into working again. In the way it should, because he already gave up on the inconsistent mass inside his chest, that _disgusting_ mess of beats. But he´ll be _damned_ of letting the same happen to his head. ‘Self-control’ is what he does.

A damn _guard_ will not take this away from him.

“And this ‘poor night of sleep’ is related to why you suddenly decided to hear me?” Sennaucia asks mildly, lowering the teacup on the table.

“'Decided to hear you’?” He raises his eyebrows, not hiding his derision.

She doesn´t seem bothered and smiles with an unpleasant hint of humor. Emmanuel always was of the opinion that his mother shouldn´t smile. It doesn´t suit her.

“About your safety, my dear. You´ve scared away all the maids and servants I´ve appointed you while keeping this terrible habit of walking around on your own. A mother worries, after all.”

He tries not to scowl but fails. “I do not need to be tended like a five-year-old.”

“No, you need to be tended like the Royal Prince you are.”

“I rarely leave the castle.”

“Your faith in our guards is admirable. Is that why you chose one of them to be your escort?”

Emmanuel freezes for a moment, his heart faltering. _Damn you woman_ — he breathes out and cuts his food as if nothing has happened, angry at his mistake in reacting. He stuffs something from his plate into his mouth, unable to focus enough to see what, and his mouth dry as paper. The texture is hard and thick and he bites hard, looking up to face his mother directly. Attempting to appear unbothered.

The annoying smile from before is still there and she meets his gaze straight on. Her avid interest doesn't diminish at all, and it's like trying to ward off a wolf by waving a piece of meat, he knows. But Emmanuel is not new to this fight, it is not the first time he has faced his mother.

 _Choose your battles_ , as they say.

And he is choosing this one.

His mother leans back, and tilts her head slightly to the side. Her smile diminishes but it is not a tell of she being successfully discouraged – pity takes form in the corner of her red lips. Her eyes dance with mirth and then she calls, joyful. "Jurren of Veshus Island.”

Emmanuel _doesn´t_ flinch.

And yet Sennaucia's eyelids drop a touch, arrogant and lazy.

“Your Majesty,” Jurren´s brass voice answers quietly, a deep rumble, and his traitorous heart trembles.

“Why don´t you sit with us for this lovely meal?”

He inhales sharply, silver protesting under his grip. He doesn't move or breathe, feeling Jurren's silence, the man's hesitation and confusion like a taste in his mouth.

One, two wild beats of his heart.

"I... wouldn't dare, Your Majesty."

“Oh, I insist. Please take a seat.” She smiles and gestures to the only other vacant chair, at her left and directly in front of Emmanuel.

It is not a request.

Jurren doesn't move right away. Emmanuel counts the seconds until the guard finally does – three and a half – boots barely making a noise on the floor while his armor clangs softly, marking his location as he walks with a careful pace. Emmanuel does not move, does not look away from where he fixed on his mother's glass, forcing his face into something blank.

Jurren stops behind the seat— he sees it through the periphery of his vision. A gloved hand rests on the chair for a moment, and then he can hear the hiss of leather before a sword is propped carefully against the table.

The chair is dragged back, and a silver figure fills the corner of his vision. Emmanuel is forced to lower his eyes to his plate quickly and his arms, wrists, and fingers feel like rusty hinges, making his bones creak as he moves. He swallows the food in his mouth, which goes down hard and tasteless, while he stabs another indefinite shape and brings it to his lips automatically.

“Do you expect to eat with your helmet? Take it off, dearest.”

His teeth clang on the fork – feels a slight agony at it. Emmanuel ignores it and drags the fork out of his mouth in a brusque way, biting the food.

A servant approaches and quickly deposits a dish in front of the guard.

“That´s better, hm. Oh, what´s this? Did you cut yourself in the helmet?”

His eyes snap up before Emmanuel can control himself.

Sennaucia is leaning on one elbow, reaching forward with the knuckles of a hand sliding down Jurren's cheek, just below the horizontal cut beginning to clot. Long, there is a purple stain around it that expands to where the thin beard starts, exactly where his mother has the back of her hand pressed.

The coils of his chest constrict, cold and hot at the same time, and he crushes the piece of cheese in his mouth as his jaw locks, swallowing the snarl wanting to climb out of his throat.

His body trembles with the effort of not throwing himself to his feet at that moment.

Her eyes flick to him for a moment and she has the palm of her other hand covering her lips.

_You-!_

“It´s nothing, Your Majesty, an accident while shaving,” Jurren says and shifts away from the touch.

Her hand lingers alone in the air for a moment. His mother raises an eyebrow.

Emmanuel standstills. 

The guard's head hangs a bit forward, his expression calm as he carefully removes his gloves and deposits them on the table beside him. Long black hair rustles against his armor when he looks up again, and dark eyes made of old whiskey find his for a moment – Emmanuel's breath falters, a shiver runs down his back and spreads down his legs and arms.

_‘it could only be you.’_

The prince hastily looks away, cursing the unstable drum inside his chest. He grabs his wine glass and takes a sip.

His mother's attention is still a burden hanging over his head.

“I must inform you, Jurren, my son has a bit of a prideful spirit. Got from his father, unfortunately,” his mother begins in a conversational tone, a seed of amusement under her words. The wine tastes overly sweet. “I´m sure you understand how, as a mother, I insist that all my children have an escort with them at all times. After all, as heirs of the kingdom they face a great amount of danger daily. All my six have at least five personal guards each, chosen carefully by my husband and I. All, except my youngest son, who has always refused to even discuss the idea as if needing protection was something _offensive_ -”

He slams the cup on the table, uncaring of decorum. "Mother-" he snarls.

She ignores him and speaks over his voice. “Imagine my _surprise_ , then, when after an entire morning in a spectacularly bad mood, he approached me saying that he wanted a personal guard. Just one. And that he wanted to choose himself who it would be.”

You could hear a coin falling on the floor in the silence that follows.

Jurren has an impassive but blank expression, impossible to read, as he stares back at his mother. She doesn't seem frustrated, however, and she studies him with the same fascination that she would have had the guard jumped from his chair screaming bloody murder.

Emmanuel resists the temptation to turn the tables between the two. Or just _leave_.

Jurren bows his head. “As Your Majesty said, it´s the greatest honor I´ll ever have in my life.”

“Yes, it´s,” she says absentmindedly, “I´m curious, though. Do you know why my son chose you?”

“I do not, Your Majesty.”

“Hmn, my dear Emmanuel here have a taste for the exotic. Food, clothes, jewels, books, he´d always favor the… not oddest, but certainly the most let´s say _colorful_ choice. A fastidious child, as a consequence. Therefore, when he said he wanted to _choose_ his guard, aside from his sudden change of mind on a topic he so heartily refused to even consider before, I was not surprised.” Interweaving her fingers, Sennaucia props her chin over them. “I thought I wouldn´t be surprised by his final choice as well.”

“And Your Majesty was?” Jurren asks after a moment, a polite voice clear of anything that could be interpreted.

“Do not take it as a slight against you. You are a handsome man, albeit me being able to say that proves my point. My son´s fondness of appearance traits rarely overlaps with mine. Are you married?”

The chair screech loudly when Emmanuel suddenly stands, echoing through the great hall. Servants startle, guards tensing.

A pause.

His mother tilts her head to him.

He looks back right in her eyes. “Thank you for the invitation, mother, but I´m satiated for now,” he says and his voice _doesn’t_ shake. A servant hurries to pull the chair and he turns to walk away from the table, advancing towards the door.

There is the sound of another chair being moved away, though not so abruptly. "Please, excuse me, Your Majesty," Jurren speaks.

“Nonsense. Just because my son decided to throw a tantrum doesn´t mean you can´t finish eating. You haven't touched anything on the table.”

Emmanuel _halts_ to a stop at the door without meaning to. His hands tremble, wanting to close into fists against his permission, and he forces the air out of his lungs at an appropriate frequency. _Doesn´t_ turn _. Doesn´t_ look _._ It's definitely of his business, Jurren is his escort-- but Emmanuel _doesn't care,_ he decides viciously and leaves, passing through the gap in the double doors impatient to wait for the guards to open them properly. He has better things to do than snarl and hiss at his mother over some small, unimportant _guard_ – what does it matter? Let her pick Jurren apart, let him enjoy the curiosity of the Queen and all that it entails.

See how much Emmanuel gives a _damn_.

He stalks the path back to his chambers, quick and stiff in his steps, ignoring the servants that dive out of his way with squeaks. The curious eyes following him. Rumors will be circulating the castle soon, he imagines: _the youngest prince was seeing storming out of the Queen´s chambers once again_.

_Another of his childish tantrums?_

_See? That´s why he´s the only one unbetrothed._

He slams open his bedroom´s doors and shoves them back. Wanting the whole castle to hear the loud bang of wood and metal and _know_ to not bother him.

But the sound never comes.

He spins in surprise and irritation but freezes when Jurren – with both hands on the double door – takes a single step into his rooms before letting them turn on the hinges and close behind him with a soft click. A hand lands on the sword´s hilt in a casual gesture when the older man finally looks up, whiskey eyes landing on Emmanuel. He doesn´t say anything.

Emmanuel swallows the dry lump in his throat, heart returning to annoyingly flutters instead of proper beats.

Entering a royal chamber without explicit permission— Emmanuel is certain he expelled more important people from less intimate rooms for much less serious offenses, burning with unconquerable indignation and anger. A simple guard with no title, barging into his room? Beheading would be the most humane and kind punishment that would cross his mind.

That should cross his mind.

But Emmanuel cannot concentrate, terribly aware of his bed a few feet behind him – and the fact that this is not the first time that this man has been in his personal quarters.

Feeling his mouth dry and uncomfortable, he pivots and stalks towards his dressing table. He sits and begins the process of removing his earrings and rings, dropping them on the silver tray without much care. And tries to ignore the way his eyes want to dart up to the mirror. He has to moderate his tongue against the words piling up in the back of his throat. He doesn´t care, he remembers irritated. _He doesn´t._

His heart jumps to his throat when a warm hand lands on his shoulder without warning.

Emmanuel inhales slowly when the hand slides down his arm at the same time as the guard kneels beside him on the floor. But the air does not come out. _He doesn´t_ — His eyes fall to his own hands when the man gently holds his wrist, sunburnt and scarred and callused skin in contrast of texture and color with his white and smooth one. He stops his aggressive attempts to pull out a stuck ring, moving his hand away. Fingers rough from a lifetime of working, long and strong and capable of handling spears and swords heavier than anything Emmanuel has ever held, work with an untold delicacy – and the prince watches, very still, as Jurren removes the ring from his hand and deposit it with the others on the dressing table.

The guard softly rubs the red, irritated skin of his finger, before letting go of his hand and standing up. Probably intending to go back to the door. Or even go out altogether.

"Are you?"

The man pauses and then kneels back in the same place. "Your Highness?" his voice is a deep rumble, quiet.

Emmanuel bites his tongue. He had no intention of speaking, but the question fled him before he managed to stop it. He keeps his eyes on his hands, massaging his fingers slowly, unsettled and tense – in the end, he gives in to the feeling bubbling up behind his heart and asks again. "Are you married?

"I ... no. I´m not.”

"Why?"

This time Jurren doesn't answer immediately and Emmanuel looks at him at last. With the man kneeling and him sitting, the two are almost at the same height, with Emmanuel having a small advantage. Brown eyes stare at him, dark eyebrows furrowed together – the small scar shifting as he gains a thoughtful look.

Emmanuel has a flash of that same face giving him a warm glance moments before delving deeper between his thighs.

A faint trace of heat twists around his stomach and he slides his ankles one under the other, pressing his legs together. “Answer me,” he orders from between clenched teeth.

“I did not find a love strong enough to compel me to exchange vows with anyone. I wanted to serve my kingdom.”

Emmanuel frowns. “What love has to do with marriage?”

Jurren bows his head a little. “A peasant’s costume. Since we are rarely important enough to warrant a political marriage, we tend to choose to tie ourselves with the one we are most fond of. In the luckiest cases, the one we are in love with.”

“What strange costume.”

“Forgive our primitiveness, my prince.”

He hums quietly and turns to finish taking his earrings off, letting them on the silver plate more calmly this time. “Is this what you want? A marriage of _love_?” his voice tightens as it leaves his mouth, acidic, out of his control and full of cruel mockery on the last word.

 _Childish, indeed_.

He grits his teeth. _I can say whatever I want._

“I do not.”

“Hoping for a political marriage with some duchess, then?” he sneers, flicking the rings and earrings into their right places inside his jewelry box.

“No. Regrettably, born and raised among the common people, I share some of their beliefs. Marriage for me would be out of love only, but in life the two are not necessarily consequences of each other. I may never marry.”

His hands are shaking without his permission again. He grabs a fistful of his robe over his lap while snaping the lid of his jewelry box closed. "You will not," he says with a voice that shudders with a cold and an uncontrollable feeling, blistering under his skin. Rage. Hate? He cannot say, he cannot categorize it.

He wants to grab the dark locks and—

“Your Highness-”

“Nor will you lay with anyone- ever,” he bites back the ‘else’ at the last second. “Not with street whores, or duchesses- not with the Queen. With _no one_.”

He stares at the box without seeing it. He can feel Jurren´s stare, the presence of the man in front of him, and his silence hangs in the pause after Emmanuel's last word, having it snapped in the air like a whip.

His armor clinks when he moves. Emmanuel doesn't react when his wrists are gently wrapped and brought between them – but his eyes jump to the guard, his lungs quivering and stopping with air inside, as the guard slides his hold to his fingers. Jurren lowers his head. His breath is a warm caress before he presses his lips against Emmanuel's knuckles.

"I understand."

The prince drags the air in, shaky. “ _If you dare-…”_

"I understand."

The blistering feeling falters. Emmanuel tries to cling to it when he speaks-- when he tries to speak. His mouth opens, but his words fold in themselves when Jurren gently brings his hands to his neck. Spreading them open, he fits the thumbs under his Adam's apple and the rest of the fingers are left curved over the expansion of the neck until they almost touch tips on the other side. Emmanuel´s eyes widen slightly, looking at the older man's calm expression as he covers his hands with his larger ones.

He can feel the trembling of his words being formed. “My life is yours, my prince. If I ever dare hurt you again, please don´t hesitate to kill me.”

-

Head hanging low between tense, trembling shoulders, Emmanuel has his fingers gripping the edge of the dressing table, breath fogging up the mirror where he´s resting his forehead against it. His reflection stares back at him, hair in disarray, and it´s _humiliating_ – he can see this pathetic expression of his, see the way his back arches with the wave of shivers, lips caught between teeth doing nothing to muffle the sounds coming out of his mouth. His face flushed red.

 _Pathetic_.

Jurren pushes firm, hungry into him, two fingers angling to slide against his inner wall and Emmanuel smothers a sob, feeling his eyes watering at the sparks of pleasure traveling to the tip of his fingers, tingling his scalp – a wet and hot tongue snuggles in tight between his ass cheeks, slithering circles over the normally hidden ring, and Emmanuel´s knees get soft and useless, toes curling. “J… Jurren…” He wants it to be a snarl, but it doesn´t come out this way – something terrible is brewing slowly in his throat, growing larger and larger, and he cannot, for the sake of his pride, let anyone hear such a thing.

A prince couldn´t utter something like this thing and still be worthy of his title.

He fights it back, chokes and grits his teeth, skin bristled, his heart so damn loud. “J-Jur—" The words don´t come, however. The order. A large hand covers one side of his rear, fingers digging firmly and pulling to the side, his undergarment around his ankles and his long silvery robe pulled up to his waist, while the man rubs elaborate paths inside him. He clutches the table in a jolt, inhaling sharply, as he pushes the tip of the tongue against his- his-- and he didn´t know it was possible for the heat on his neck and face get worse, except it does, a burst of shock jarring his thoughts.

_He- inside!_

The first touch of warmth at his insides spreads swiftly into a smooth caress as it dives unexpectedly _deep_ and Emmanuel is trembling, moans gathering behind his teeth. He twists around to reach for the man. “N—!” His fingers close around rough, black locks but without strength, all his muscles soft. The first touch shifts, smearing saliva across his walls, long fingers kneading slowly over his cheek as Jurren grunts a heavy, wordless sound of appreciation into him and a subtle throb runs through the tongue licking the inside of his ass, ending in an itching tease deep within him. A strangled gasp melts into whimpers between clenched teeth, a loud squelching noise from the hand spreading his lips brutishly as they finger him rather eagerly, with an insisting tongue moving so softly inside him, lips pressing around his ring to suckle gently.

His pussy is leaking too much, all strained open and hot. Shivers of unfamiliar pleasure climb his back, making him squirm and pant fast through the nose, eyes wide and stunned. Jurren is—inside, with his mouth, he is l-licking! Why-- 

A third finger suddenly jams through, stretching him wider still, the strain tangible all up his inner walls. His thoughts evaporate and the prince cries out, shaking, as the guard fingers him with firm, fast little shoves, fingers kneading into his ass cheek as he works under Emmanuel´s suddenly tightening snatch, tongue licking his insides. Finally, a thumb press against that little sensible knob in the front, and the young prince shudders violently, eye squeezing shut as he desperately grips at the table, his back arching, white noise rushing through his ears as a helpless keen moan burst from him – his orgasm comes down on him in violent waves of heat that seize him prisoner and he can only lay there, trembling helplessly with his mouth hanging open as his body is unmade whole.

Emmanuel´s air rushes out of him all at once then, a quivering, belly-born sigh while Jurren slows down, riding the last wrings of his convulsing walls. The young prince collapses on the table, forehead on the wood with his legs soft and useless, his shoulders heaving up and down as he tries to recover his breath. He blinks against his blurry vision, skin bristled and tingling with relief and pleasure, and whimpers as Jurren finally slides his fingers out, suckling at his ring one last time before subjecting him to the feeling of that tongue rolling back and slipping from him, leaving his ass feeling cold.

Jurren moves behind him, standing up. His hands brand the bared skin of his hips, thumbs digging on the muscles of his lower back and moving back and forth in a slow massage. “Your Highness.” Emmanuel shuts his eyes at the guard´s husky voice, low, with a hint of something tender. There´s the ghostly caress of breath over his neck and then he´s kissing his back, nuzzling between his shoulder blades as something hard brush against his ass, still enshroud in rough fabric. A thumb trails down of his spine, rubs circles over the tailbone. “Can I…?”

The prince swallows thickly. “… w… what?”

The finger slips lower, between his cheeks and Emmanuel bites his lips as it brushes over his ring, slicked with saliva. The tip presses gently, making an undefined sound swallow up in his throat. “Here. Can I?” Jurren asks, lips pressed over his ear.

“W-what? But…” His concentration fractures and his words get stuck, feeling the finger move in a slow circle, a teasing touch that makes him shiver. “J… Jurren…”

“It´s okay.” The pressure grows firm, pushing to one side and another as if playing with it, opening him up a little. “That´s how men do, sometimes.” Emmanuel wants to tense, can feel his heartbeat speeding up all over again – but his body is all pliant, limp uncooperative mass of muscles. He´s helpless to do anything but whimper softly, his head still recovering from his orgasm starting to melt all over again as Jurren gently push, rough thick finger breaching him very slowly.

“A-ah…” cheek against the table, Emmanuel pants, curling his hands over the wood. His toes are splaying open, the strange feeling rising from the friction as the finger sinks deep into him – he wants to squirm. It feels-- more _intense_ than when he used his tongue. Bigger. Longer. He breathes roughly and shudders as Jurren slides it back and then push into him again, the same way he did on the front. “T… that´s…”

“Like this. Stay relaxed.” A rustle of fabric over skin and the finger slips out from him before, his hips are grabbed. Something impossible hot presses against him then, massive and throbbing fat right over his pussy and his breathing squeezes out in a squeak, his eyes snapping open to the fogged mirror of his dressing table. His stomach clenches, hot, and he tilts his head with a moan stifled in his mouth as it slides up between his lips, face burning as he feels himself starting to leak again. A rounded head brush over his quivering hole, smearing the man´s liquid arousal in a line across his slit and then higher, sinking between his cheeks and spreading them wide apart with its sheer size. It stops over his ring, drooling a thick mess, a wet kiss of their intimacies that leaves droplets of pre tickling down his crack, and sends a shocked tingle over his spine.

His breathing quickens, and he grabs the table tight with a sliver of nervousness. He knows… he knows a bit about this. He read in some books about doing things this way and although in the stories it seemed to be-- good, the idea of that progressing beyond the initial pressure feels more and more absurd! He forgot since yesterday how- how _big_ this man is. It´s like a wall pressing against him, such is the staggering size difference. _It´s impossible_ , a part of him screams, _tell him to stop!_

He shivers, mouth opening—but no words come out.

“That´s it,” Jurren mumbles, a hand holding his length steady as he rubs the cockhead tighter against him. He slides a broad palm under his robe, following the curve of his spine and leaving tingling paths on Emmanuel´s skin. Eyes unfocused, tongue playing over his teeth, the prince shivers as a gush of pre floods his ring and the warm liquid seeps inside him. Whimpers feeling his body spreads open around the very tip. The guard exhales slowly, hand cupping the nape of his neck and a thumb pressing the muscles there. “that´s it.”

A weak moan slips out before he bites down on his tongue to contain himself, trembling from head to toe as the older man grinds against him, mashing that broad, warm head into that circular muscle. He drops his head on the table, barely daring to breathe as he sinks his nails on the surface, both in horror of what that man is planning to do with him and the realization that... Emmanuel is not stopping him.

 _This is wrong_ , the thought begs inside his head, _dirty!_ There gushes of warm air on his hair of Jurren´s shaky groans, the wedged tip pouring liquid at each fat throb that sends tiny agonies through him, and the knuckles of his fingers are white in his desperate grip. _Stop!_

A hungry buck and a frantic cry is nearly punched from him, his throat clamping shut as the full, terrible bulk of his cockhead shoves through in a single squelch. And Jurren sets to stretch him further still, fat, rhythmic pulses wrecking his insides as that cock sinks into him like a column of rock-hard fire as pre floods him, slicking the path ahead just enough that the friction burns on the edge of rubbing his walls raw. Body arched and quivering, he takes it, mouth hanging open, his own liquid arousal quietly tickling down on the inside of his thighs and dripping, stretching thin strings as transparent drops hit the floor between his feet, his toes curling in his shoes, his skin bristling.

Jurren pants and moans above him, voice almost a growl, hands pinning him down as the man slides deeper and deeper into his body. And the world is swimming before his eyes and he´s sweating and heaving, when he feels keenly his guts straining as something numbingly big fills it to a straining point, pre soaking the walls of his intestines. The guard moans something to him but he can´t make it out from his own drumming heartbeat, busy with the sudden feeling of a heavier, sturdier body leaning over him as heavy, powerful balls snuggle tight to his sizzling lips, the man´s hips finally, finally plopping against his ass. Emmanuel shudders heavily half-blind with tears, frantic, shallow gasps trembling his chest, his mind a pool of jumbled thoughts.

“ _Fuck_ …” The hands over his back are shaking, a distant part of the young prince registers. The older man pants softly above him, and he sees in the fogged reflection Jurren bracing himself at each side of his waist, head bowed low over him as the guard leans forward, charcoal locks hanging around his face. His chest exposed, armor, and shirt on the floor. “Your H… Highness,” his voice is tight, a bit choked. “I can´t- shit, are- are you okay?”

He lets out a wordless, rough sound from the back of his throat, every instinct reeling from the reality of what just happened. Just feeling the burning stretch of his insides.

_He- he really put it._

“Please tell… tell me if it hurts, my prince,” he whispers, shifts his weight… and then the world seems to invert – the massive presence inside his ass pulls back and seems to drag his insides with it, sucking air back into his lungs with every inch slipping free. In the same manner, a firm, deliberate thrust and all air is pouring out in a long, shaking moan, the prince feeling vividly the round head squeezing back into his guts. A slow rhythm begins, dragging back with a loud slurp of his slicked walls clinging around the man, inches leaving him with little wet smacks of skin slipping from skin and Emmanuel has to clutch the edge of the table to avoid sliding back with it, until half the length is out. Then Jurren squelches back in with a low groan, pushing terrible sounds against his tightly closed lips and flooding his eyes with tears – Emmanuel feels like crying, overwhelmed to the point he feels terrified. W-what is happening with him?

The man moves, thick cock scraping his walls down to their nerves, _burning_ , and he bites his tongue hard. His heartbeat is thundering inside his head. The table creaks under their combined weight as Jurren plows deep within him, his cheeks been pushed wide around that fat girth at each thrust while the man dives into his backdoor again and again, sending a shock of sharp pain rippling through him every time he´s tautened. Sure that this time- _this_ time something will rip, tear apart inside him because he´s being split apart around that cock as Jurren groans over him, fingers splayed on the table, _fucking him_ —

_Fucking him in the ass._

Emmanuel shudders hard, almost a flinch of his muscles as he thuds his cheek against the table, mouth falling open without a sound at the same time Jurren bends lower, black stands grazing his face gently. Tears cut trails over his flaming face with the waves of sensations hitting him – wrecking, incomprehensible. The man pulls halfway out and sinks right back in, rocking Emmanuel´s body forward, scorching nerves the young man didn't know he had, stimulated to the limit in every possible way. It scorches, _burns_. An inescapable torment under these swinging hips, the long, solid-hard cock deflowering his ring, finding the perfect rhythm to claim it, dragging against his walls in a way that makes him want to cry out. He never knew that it is possible to feel half of everything that is going on inside him: the pressure, the heat, the increasing slick of the liquids that the man is pumping constantly smoothing the way. His body quivers outside his control every time he slips into deep into his belly, simultaneously in orgasmic shivers and panic tremors.

“Your Highness…” Jurren fucks his backdoor in keen, slow thrusts. The soft smack of their hips is no louder than the lewd, wet slurp of that cock pushing inside the young prince, liquids leaking out every time the man pulls back. His forehead is brushing Emmanuel´s temple, lips over his ear to allow him to hear the older man´s low groans of pleasure and pure delight. “You´re so _… tight_ …” The words are a whisper of secrecy, and when the man hilts once more, a slow push that melts into grinds against his ass, long and forceful circles as the head rolls inside him – and Emmanuel´s head is tilting back, brow frowned in a desperate expression as he lets out a wrecked, imploring wisp of voice that seems to begs for more. Moaning. Shivering. Emmanuel finds that he has lost control of his own breathing – the only thing clear is that throbbing, searing shaft filling his ass, it's every pulse an earthquake of pleasure that begins on the tempered steel base up to the broad, bulging head. _What is h-happening?_

Jurren groans again, jerking his hips in a point-blank shove and an avalanche of heat rushes through Emmanuel´s entire body. _A-again? Ah-!_ His hips quiver and his second orgasm hit him in splashes of heat in his belly that spreads like lightning, as thick liquid suddenly spurts from his sizzling hot pussy, splattering the already damp floor between his squirming feet.

“ _Ah_ -!”

“Fuck-”

His sudden retreat yanks the young man from his orgasm – after the constant, relentless rolling of that cock deep inside his body, his interior seems to keep a hollow shape when Jurren abruptly pulls out in a loud, sucking pop that leaves him gaping. And promptly _shoves_ it back and pounds a cry from him, almost making him choke. A wave of relief runs through him together with pain, and Emmanuel is hugged by the waist before the man wraps a hand around one of his knees and lifts it, pulling it wide apart from the other and leaving his ass perfectly accessible and taut around the overwhelming girth. Emmanuel whimpers as Jurren draws back, then the air is expelled from his chest in another cry when he hammers against his ass. Again, drag back and _smack!_ Again. Again. His head swirls with the new shock of agonizing pleasure, his gasps melting into a wailing plead as the fucking restarts, the sensual slow pace _gone_.

His nails dig into the smooth wood of the dressing table banging noisily at the wall, creaking, his breath fractured and shallow. His exhausted ring convulses around that man claiming him completely, wringing tight when he drags out and spasming in a clench when he slams them together. The thrusts drag that cock in and out of his guts and in the brief moment he´s completely buried, Emmanuel can feel his shaft throbbing with strength and hunger while the cruelly enlarged glans seem to swell even more, brutalizing his ass from top to bottom with shoves of those hips. Jurren growls and groans at the side of his head, breath rushing out in hoarse hisses, caressing his ear as the man jerks his body back and forth. Violating his virgin ass. Fucking his other hole like it was meant to it.

Emmanuel can feel something changing, growing tension in the muscles of the strong body glued to his. And at once, the prince is overwhelmed _. Cum,_ he thinks desperate, _I want him to cum inside me again._ Fill his womb with hot, _thick_ liquid. Hot seed. _Jurren_ ´s hot seed. Again. _Again_ -

_Claim me again._

A thunderous blow to his ass, crushing his buttocks against broad hips and in the next second, pure and unquenchable heat stabs him and soaks into his flesh. Thick, piercing jets flood him almost instantly, yet he rams in, again and again, lining his way with thick seed that squirts out as he continues to fuck him vigorously, taking advantage of his ring becoming more viscous than ever. Rivers of pleasure trickle down his crack and his thighs, mixing with Emmanuel´s liquid as the young prince also gushes a second time, crying out his shaky moans.

The heat blooming at his deepest point progressively spreads through Emmanuel´s body. His eyes close and his head falls forward, shaking and panting, his hole twitching tightly around that drilling cock as he pounds and pounds. Until Jurren finally starts to slow down and the thrusts melts into deep, avid circles buried balls-deep within the prince, point-blank, flooding his guts.

The man finally stops: one last powerful lunge with one last hot spray painting his ass and the guard stills, the moment marked by a loud, explosive exhalation by his ear.

Emmanuel blinks eyes blurry with tears, shivers of pleasure and relief rolling over and over through his body. The world is immersed in a warm glow as the surrounding air itself feels moist and hot, while steam seems to raise from his body, his robe clinging to his body like a second skin, his hair flat and damp on his face.

His legs are numb and heavy, the insides sticky with still trickling liquids.

The man rests his chin on his shoulder, his heaving chest pressing comfortably on his back while his breath caresses Emmanuel´s collarbone. He can still feel Jurren throb lazily, still buried inside all the way to the base, hot steely cock softening little by little.

(in that instant when they are just there together, Emmanuel´s liquefied mind almost tricks him into thinking they are slowly melting together – the boundary between cock and his walls obscured by a line of heat that seems to weld them that way.

 _Amazing_ , the thought is quiet. Emmanuel shivers.)

His muscles strained with tension begin to ease and he´s turning into something boneless, a mass of satisfaction, while he slowly catches his breath. The small details of their surrounding slowly start returning to him: the table´s edge digging uncomfortably against his ribs, the almost violent smell of sex and sweat, his only leg resting on the floor shaking unsteadily and his toes curled. He feels ... wet. The inside of his thighs– and the back, and the front, down to his ankles and seeping into his shoes – it´s all sticky. He can feel a mixture of thick cum and thinner pre trickling down his crack, reaching his pussy. There´re tear tracks on his cheeks, saliva smeared on his chin.

Jurren is a solid, huge form draped over his back, so much bigger and broader. He puts his leg down gently, rubs the spasming muscles of his thigh. He presses a kiss to his shoulder and then neck. Doesn´t seem to be in a hurry to move.

Emmanuel drags a hand down to clutch at his arms, feeling his face burning with relief. The idea of separating, for now, feels _devastating_ , and he can´t help but ask silently, as he closes his eyes, for just a little longer.

Together, like this.

_Just for a little while more._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, feel free to visit me in my [tumblr](https://play-of-kids.tumblr.com)
> 
> Thanks for reading.


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